The three investigators got up. Elena and Sasha wanted to discuss what had happened only this morning, what it meant. Who was Yakovlev? Why had they gotten raises? Karpo had no such questions.
“When I was a child,” said Rostnikov, leaning forward to draw a bird on a branch over the word
She was the least accustomed to such displays of curiosity by Rostnikov, who always seemed genuinely interested in the answers to questions that appeared to be of no great consequence.
“Purple,” she said.
Rostnikov looked at Sasha.
“Green,” he said.
It was Karpo’s turn.
“Black,” he said.
Rostnikov had not really expected an answer from Emil Karpo. He looked up and saw something in the man’s eyes that caused him concern.
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “Send in Zelach, please.”
The trio of inspectors left.
Moments later a nervous Zelach knocked at the door, waited to be told to enter, and then slouched in to stand before the desk.
“Sit,” said Rostnikov.
Zelach sat.
“How is your mother?” asked Rostnikov.
“Well,” said Zelach, “she’ll be happy to hear about the raise. It is true?”
“True,” said Rostnikov. “Director Yakovlev is a man of his word.”
He did not add that his word was often something others did not like to hear.
Zelach was forty-one, unmarried, lived with his mother, and was both loyal and far from bright. When he was told to do something, he would do it, even if it might cost him life or limb. Zelach had lost part of his eyesight in an attack by a criminal two years earlier. His recovery from that and other injuries in the attack had resulted in a long convalescence.
Zelach was dressed in worn but neat slacks, shirt, and jacket; all selected by his mother.
“Two questions, Zelach,” said Rostnikov, “and then we go to work. First, what is your favorite color?”
Zelach looked decidedly confused.
“Orange,” he said. “My mother’s is white.”
“So is my wife’s. Second question,” said Rostnikov, “How did your father die?”
Zelach looked even more puzzled.
“You know. He was shot.”
Zelach’s father was a uniformed officer. He had been shot while trying to stop a black market deal in a garage. There should have been no shooting. It was a minor crime, and the black marketeers would probably have been able to bribe their way out of any serious punishment. Still, one had panicked and a single 9mm bullet had taken the life of Zelach’s father.
“How did you feel about it?” asked Rostnikov, thinking about the bomber to whom he had just spoken.
“Feel? Sad, angry. I wanted revenge.”
“Revenge,” said Rostnikov, putting the finishing touches on his bird. “Did you ever get your revenge?”
“No,” said Zelach.
“And plainly it has not driven you mad,” said Rostnikov.
“No,” said the even more confused Zelach.
“Do you still think of revenge?”
“No,” said Zelach.
“Come,” said Rostnikov, rising with difficulty. “Later we’ll have birds to draw, colors to see. Now we catch a murderer.”
FOUR
Ludmilla Henshakayova was startled by the knock at her door. She had been sitting at her window looking out at the snow starting to fall again. In the corner a man on the television screen began to laugh. Ludmilla didn’t know why he was laughing and she really didn’t care. He and the electric picture box were there for mindless company. Ludmilla did not like to be alone.
Another knock.
Ludmilla did not live in the best of neighborhoods. Her apartment building was in fatal disrepair, and from her window not far from where the trolleys turned she could see only the ancient cemetery and its occasional visitors. Mostly, from the window, she watched the ugly huge crows perch on the tombstones, leaving their claw prints in the snow. Ludmilla was nearly seventy and barely able to survive on her pension plus the money she made selling flowers in front of the Bolshoi when the opera, ballet, or other event was going on. Such events were frequent, and Ludmilla needed the money badly, but recently the cold had gotten to her, and Kretchman, the flower supplier, had suggested that she stop until the weather grew warmer. But how could she?
A third knock.
Ludmilla sighed and over the sound of the laughing man on the television shouted, “Who?”
“Police,” came a woman’s voice.
“I don’t believe you,” said Ludmilla, looking at the dead bolt and four locks on her door.
“I’m here with another officer,” the woman who claimed to be a police officer said. “We’ll slip our identification cards under the door.”
Ludmilla still sat. The man on the television had stopped laughing. Perhaps the snow would stop soon. There was a Mozart opera at the Bolshoi. She couldn’t remember which one, but there would be Americans, French, Canadians. They and the newly rich young Russians were her customers.
The cards came under the door.
“They could be forged,” Ludmilla said. “Anything can be forged if you have the money.”
“We are here to talk to you and about the man who attacked you,” came a young man’s voice.
“That was ten years ago,” said Ludmilla.
“Almost,” said the woman outside.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Ludmilla said firmly.
“We think he is still attacking women,” said the female voice outside. “We think he is hurting them badly, raping and beating them. We think he may eventually kill one of his victims.”
“Go to them,” shouted Ludmilla, knowing that her next-door neighbor, Maria Illianova, was listening to every word.
“You are the only one who has seen him,” said the woman.
Ludmilla sighed, got up on her arthritic legs, and moved slowly to the door. When she got there, she looked down at the two identification cards, but she didn’t bend to pick them up.
She opened the door.
Sasha and Elena heard the locks click and watched the door come open. According to their information from the original report of the attack, Ludmilla Henshakayova was a large woman of not yet seventy. The woman before them in a loose-fitting dress was thin and seemed ancient. She looked at Sasha and Elena and then stepped back so they could enter the small apartment.
Sasha paused to pick up their identification cards and hand Elena hers.
The door closed and Ludmilla said, “With two police inside, I can lock it later.”
On the television, the laughing man was now interviewing an actor. Ludmilla couldn’t remember his name but she recognized him. He sat across from the laughing man, confident, handsome, legs crossed.
“Ludmilla Henshakayova,” Elena said gently to get the woman’s attention.
“I’m sorry,” said Ludmilla. “I suffer from the Russian diseases of fear, loneliness, melancholy, and a desire
