Rostnikov did not bother to ask if the subject of Zelach’s concern was urgent. If it were not, the slouching and obviously uncomfortable detective in the front seat would not have had the courage to impose himself on the scene.
“Can it wait till we get to Petrovka?” Rostnikov asked.
“Yes,” said Zelach, who turned his head forward, adjusted his glasses, and closed his eyes, trying to remember approximately how he and his mother had worked out what he would say to the chief inspector.
They drove straight to Petrovka, Rostnikov breaking his usual rule of sitting next to the driver so that he would be at the side of the silent Sasha. The snow was falling softly, crystals glittering in the headlights, streetlights, and the eyes of men and women.
“You did well,” Rostnikov said.
Sasha nodded and said, “Maya is back.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I should wait till tomorrow to go home.”
“Maybe you should take three days off. Be with your family. Find your mother’s artist friend. Be a husband and father. Play with your wife and children in the snow. Let us make that an order. You are to take three days off.”
Sasha nodded and said no more.
When they pulled up in front of Petrovka’s gates Rostnikov got out, being careful to hold on to the door of the Lada to keep from slipping. Zelach was standing on the sidewalk, waiting.
“The driver will take you home,” Rostnikov said. “Give my love to Maya and kiss the children for me. And one more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Brush your teeth before you go to bed with your wife tonight,” said Rostnikov, closing the door and waving the driver into the night.
“Now,” said Rostnikov as he joined Zelach on the sidewalk in front of the iron gate, “do you want to go to my office and talk for a few minutes or wait for me there while I report to the director?”
“I would like to speak here. I will be brief,” said Zelach, looking around as if he expected someone to intrude on their conversation. “It is about Inspector Karpo.”
“Karpo,” Rostnikov repeated when Zelach paused, considering whether he could go on.
“I think … I know it is not my place, but I am concerned about him. And about me. My mother is concerned. She agreed that I should tell you.”
The night was cold and the hour late. Rostnikov stood patiently, waiting for the tortured man before him to provide some clarity.
“I think Inspector Karpo is behaving very unlike himself”
“In what way?” asked Rostnikov.
“I think he might be doing things that are not … I am not doing this well.”
“Things that are? …” Rostnikov prompted patiently.
“Things that could get him hurt or killed. And me too. I mean they could get me hurt and killed too, not that I am doing such things. I mean, Inspector Karpo is the senior detective and I do whatever he orders, but …”
“You think he is behaving suicidally?”
“Sui-I don’t know. I am just concerned. I thought, my mother thought, you should know.”
“Have you told Inspector Karpo about your concerns?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He never really answered me.”
“Be calm, Akardy,” Rostnikov said, starting to feel the cold creep into his half leg. If he stood out here long enough, he would have definite difficulty walking. “Tell me what has brought you to this conclusion about Inspector Karpo. Talk slowly.”
Zelach sighed, a cloud of cold steam billowing from his mouth, and began to speak.
When Zelach had finished, Rostnikov said, putting his right hand on the man’s shoulder, “You were right to tell me, Akardy. Now, go home. I will see you in the morning.”
Five minutes later, Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov was ushered into the office of Director Yaklovev by Pankov, who trotted ahead of the chief inspector like a puppy in urgent need of a fire hydrant.
The Yak was seated behind his desk, hands folded, making no pretense of doing anything but waiting for the arrival of his chief inspector. He motioned Rostnikov toward one of the two chairs across from the desk and as soon as the detective was seated, the Yak held out his right hand.
Rostnikov, still wearing his coat, reached into his pocket, pulled out the package he carried, and handed it across the table. The Yak placed it in front of him and patted it once.
“I will write a full report in the morning unless you need it immediately,” Rostnikov said.
“There will be no need for a report,” said the Yak.
Rostnikov nodded. “Then I may-”
“A moment,” said the Yak, tapping the package before him. “There were developments while you were away. The missing son of Nikoli Lovski has been located and returned to his father. Zelach shot the kidnapper. He will explain it to you, I am sure. Inspector Karpo has already submitted a report about the incident, which I have edited somewhat.”
“The kidnapper?”
“A foreigner,” said the Yak. “Appears to have some influential connections. He was released an hour ago. No matter. The affair is settled to my satisfaction and that of Nikoli Lovski.”
“You said
“Your son and Elena Timofeyeva have apprehended the subway attacker,” said the Yak. “We are being given full credit. Unfortunately, Detective Timofeyeva was slightly injured during the apprehension, but she is resting at home. I have recommended her for a medal.”
“Now may I-”
“Rostnikov,” the Yak said, sitting back. “You are to forget the existence of this package.”
“I shall direct my curiosity in other directions.”
“Not toward the Lovski case,” said the Yak.
“Then, with my limited options, I shall go to see Elena Timofeyeva.”
“We understand each other,” the Yak said, rising.
Rostnikov rose too. “I believe we do,” said the policeman.
The Yak seated himself again while Rostnikov crossed the room and paused at the door, where he turned and said, “I have given Sasha Tkach three days’ leave.”
The Yak nodded.
“I should like to also remove Inspector Karpo from the regular case rotation.”
This time the Yak paused and cocked his head to one side.
“Special assignment until further notice with your approval,” Rostnikov went on.
“Reason?”
“His skills, I believe, will be better utilized in other areas. And I believe there is a fatigue factor involved.”
“Fatigue?”
“Inspector Karpo has worked tirelessly for two decades, tirelessly and, I believe, at great cost to his emotional well-being.”
“Signs of emotion in Inspector Karpo have evaded my observation,” said the Yak.
“And his,” said Rostnikov.
“Your request is granted. However, this must be temporary.”
“Six months should be sufficient,” said Rostnikov.
“Six months, then. You will not forget to keep me informed of his assignments,” said the Yak.
“I forget only what you order me to forget,” said Rostnikov.
Unspoken was the quid pro quo. Neither man smiled. Rostnikov limped from the room, closing the door slowly behind him.
