asked Rostnikov, continuing to make notes or drawings.
“I …” Elena began.
“Suits,” said Iosef. “I believe they were all wearing dark suits.”
“Check,” said Rostnikov. “Be sure.”
“Anything else on this?” the Yak asked.
“Paulinin has the body,” said Elena. “He told us to come to him for a report at eleven.”
That was two hours away.
“Report directly to me,” the Yak said. “Chief Inspector Rostnikov will be on special assignment for a number of days.”
The Yak watched Rostnikov for a reaction to this announcement. He got none other than a nod from his chief inspector, who looked up without raising his head.
Porfiry Petrovich had much on his mind. Among his thoughts were Nina’s and Laura’s mother and his wife Sarah’s headaches, which they had been assured were a natural and probably lifelong effect of successful removal of a small tumor from her brain three years ago.
On a more immediate level, he was engaged in self-analysis. He had automatically drawn a man’s suit jacket with a white dove peeking out of one pocket and a gray-white crow out of the other. Above the suit jacket were two wide eyes, one of which was closed. A knowing wink? An irritating eyelash? And behind all of that was the sun, with weak little lines of radiation bursting from it and a large dark cloud partially covering it. Rostnikov was a fair but not exceptional craftsman with pencil. His notebooks were filled with drawings and words. He never planned what would appear. He let something deep within him guide his hand. He was always most in contact with his muse when “he was at the regular morning meeting.
He wrote the word
“The search for the musician,” the Yak said, wondering what Rostnikov was drawing or writing in that notebook. His curiosity had twice sent the frightened Pankov on missions into Rostnikov’s office when the chief inspector was out on a case or home at night. Pankov had retrieved the notebook and brought it to the Yak.
The contents of the book were a puzzle to the director, who had concluded that Rostnikovs imagination might well be the key to his success as an investigator. But the answer was not to be found in the notebook. The book contained not careful notes taken at the morning meetings, or even fragments involving ongoing investigations. There were pictures and words of varying sizes, words that made little sense to the Yak.
“Karpo and Zelach are in search,” said Rostnikov.
“There is some urgency,” said the Yak.
Rostnikov nodded knowingly and felt a sudden urge to underline the words he had written. He did not resist.
Word that the son of Nikoli Lovski was missing would eventually begin to leak out. It would swell from minor rumor to major story within days if he were not found. The Office of Special Investigation had been given the case because all other divisions were well aware that any investigative body that took it on and failed to find the young man might well take a serious bite from their behind.
The reasons were many. Misha Lovski, the Naked Cossack, was a rising folk hero to the skinheads of the city. The Naked Cossack’s blaring, angry music spewed hatred toward foreigners, Jews, the police, bankers, rappers, and the government. Lately, he had included a wide variety of Mafia organizations in his attacks. At the same time, the lyrics praised the tattooed independence and defiance of the law by Mafias consisting of former convicts.
The hate-spewing Naked Cossack had many enemies, but he had one thing that others who were exhorting hate and violence did not have, Misha Lovski had a father who owned five television stations, a newspaper, a construction company with major contracts with the city of Moscow and its mayor, and import deals for high-tech equipment from Japan, China, France, the United States, Sweden, and England.
The world was not aware that the Naked Cossack was the son of a wealthy man, a Jew. Misha had certainly hidden his heritage, but perhaps someone had discovered his secret, his wealthy Jewish father, perhaps one of those to whom he had sung of hate and Russian purity. Perhaps many things.
“There has been no more telephone contact with Misha Lovski?” asked the Yak.
“Other than the one phone call, none,” Rostnikov said.
“So,” said the Yak, looking at each person at the table. “We have made little progress on all fronts.”
“Except the extortions,” Rostnikov said.
“The extortions, yes,” the Yak confirmed, as if it were a matter of little consequence. “Well?”
“Sasha,” Rostnikov said.
Sasha Tkach, who until two years ago had still appeared boyish enough to pass as a university student, had changed greatly in appearance and attitude. He was lean and good-looking, with a lock of hair that fell boyishly in front of his eyes and had to be frequently brushed away. For some reason, this lock of hair attracted women of all ages. Sasha had proved frequently that he had great difficulty resisting the more serious advances.
His failure of mind and body had cost him his wife, Maya, and their two children. Well, there had been more to her resolute move to her brother in Kiev. Sasha had grown increasingly depressed and moody, had spoken little and touched Maya even less.
On this day, however, Sasha had the mote of hope. Maya had agreed to return with the children, but only for two weeks, a test. It was agreed that she would leave with the children after those two weeks. She had round-trip tickets from Kiev. If the test went well, she would return to Moscow, perhaps on a more permanent basis.
Such travel was beyond Sasha’s means, which meant that he had to accept money from his mother. Lydia Tkach loved her son. Lydia Tkach was a not-inconsiderable contributor to his depressive state.
Having invested wisely in several very small businesses both before and after the fall of the Soviet Union, the former government employee and widow of a KGB major had grown more than just financially comfortable. Lydia was definitely well off and willing to help others. She had employed Galina, the grandmother of the two girls who lived with the Rostnikovs, in her bakery. She had supplemented her son’s income. She brought food to the table, gifts for the children and her son and daughter-in-law. But there was a price to pay.
Lydia Tkach had strong opinions, which she voiced frequently and loudly, a result of the fact that she was nearly deaf and refused to wear a hearing aid. One of her strong opinions was that her only child should not be a policeman, and to this end she frequently petitioned Porfiry Petrovich.
Though his independence was under unrelenting attack by his mother, Sasha clung with determination to his identity as a police investigator. Without it, he felt, he had nothing. He was without skills other than fluency in French and a fair knowledge of computers. Maya had far more potential than he did. She worked for a Japanese import company and had risen quickly. The company had accepted her move to Kiev and given her an even more important office position there. In fact, the company had been very willing to cooperate with her decision to move.
In retaliation for Sasha’s indiscretions, Maya had engaged in a brief affair with one of the Japanese vice- presidents of the company. The man was gentle, kind, and married.
“The report before you shows that two uniformed officers and a lieutenant in the plunder-investigation unit have been identified as the extortionists,” Sasha said. “We have recorded statements from eight businessmen from whom they have been taking money. One of the two officers has confessed in the hope of receiving leniency, which I suggested she might receive.”
“I will talk to the procurator’s office,” the Yak said, making a note. “The name of the cooperating officer?”
“Ludmilla Vianovna,” said Sasha. “I was fortunate enough to gain her confidence.”
The Yak did not pursue the means by which Sasha had gained the female officer’s confidence. He looked at his watch and declared, “Anything else?”
No one spoke. The goal of all around the table was escape from the room at the earliest possible moment.
“The meeting is ended. Porfiry Petrovich, please remain.”
Sasha, Iosef, and Elena stood and headed for the door. Pankov remained in his seat, resisting the urge to wipe his moist brow.
