“I am expecting a visitor,” the woman said. “Very soon.”
“You have a visitor,” said Iosef. “The police.”
There was no sound from within for at least fifteen seconds.
“All right, but be quick. I am expecting a visitor.”
The door opened and a large woman stood before them, her hair a wild, untamed dance of fading blond tips and stringy brown stalks, her face a mask of almost grotesque makeup. She wore a white nightdress that she held closed across her breasts.
She could have been any age from twenty to sixty, her face a round red-dappled apple with two quite beautiful blue eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. She was clearly drunk at ten in the morning.
“I’ve had a few drinks,” she acknowledged, correctly reading the look on their faces. “My husband just died. But you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Iosef.
“Come in,” she said.
They entered and she closed the door.
They stood in a chaos of pillows, filled ashtrays, clothes piled on a brown sagging sofa, glasses, and two bottles on a small table.
She pushed a pillow out of the way on the sofa and sat heavily looking around when she was firmly in place.
“The cat, do you see the. . no, never mind. The cat is dead. I plan to get a new cat and some new clothes with the money.”
“Money?” asked Iosef.
Albina Babinski looked up, in an apparent moment of searching for sobriety to deal with her error.
“A friend owes me money,” she said. “What do you want to know about Fedot? You want the names of his women too?”
“Too?” Iosef repeated as Zelach looked around the apartment without turning his head.
“I do not keep secrets well,” she said, running a hand through her jungle of hair. “I am of too honest a nature.”
Zelach moved to a low table against the wall on which were scattered cups, magazines, filled ashtrays, and a dozen or so small framed photographs. He picked up one of the photographs.
“Leave those alone, Cossack,” the woman shouted at Zelach, who replaced the photograph.
“Someone has paid you to give him the names of women with whom your husband had affairs?” asked Iosef, ignoring the outburst.
“How did you know?” Albina Babinski asked, her hand coming down to partially reveal one full pink right breast.
Zelach could not keep himself from looking.
“You just told us. Who is he?” asked Iosef, apparently paying no attention to the naked breast.
“She, it is a woman. Do I keep the money?”
“When is she coming?”
“By ten o’clock,” she said, reaching for one of the bottles on the nearby table and examining the glasses to determine which one was the least dirty.
Zelach looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to ten.
“What is the woman’s name?”
“Vera something. She is a reporter for something, I think. I do not care about her name, just her money. Fedot Babinski has left me nothing but anguish and wasted years. I will need to go back to work again, but not at my old profession.”
“Tell us the names of the women,” said Iosef, who nodded at Zelach, who, in turn, took out his notebook and began writing the names as Albina Babinski struggled to remember them.
“I think that is all,” she said after finishing the recitation of names and a not-small glass of vodka.
She had leaned over in the course of giving her information. The tops of both of her breasts now showed, right to the nipples. She suddenly looked up and caught Zelach’s eyes looking at her. He averted his eyes, but it was too late.
“You like what you see, shy policeman?” she asked.
“Cover yourself,” said Iosef patiently.
“What did you see?” she asked, pulling the nightgown closed again.
“A small but distinct surgical scar on your right breast,” said Zelach. “And another on your left. You have had small growths removed from both. There is a white spot just above the nipple of your left breast, indicating that you may have another growth there that needs attention.”
Albina Babinski’s mouth opened. She looked at Iosef, who had no intention of helping her. She had asked the question. Iosef was familiar with such bursts of observation from Akardy Zelach.
Before more could be said, there was a knock at the door. Zelach checked his watch. It was two minutes to ten.
They both woke up with the first light of dawn.
Iris Templeton reached out with her right hand and touched the chest of Sasha Tkach, who lay on his back atop the blanket. Then she moved her fingers down to his stomach, almost tickling, till she felt the curled hair between his legs and his ready member pointing straight toward the ceiling. She rolled over on top of him, looking down at his sad eyes, and eased him into her. She continued with small, steady strokes, which prompted him deeper and ever deeper. She breathed heavily, reaching down to press her thumb across his lips and into his mouth. Now she was frenzied and moving dizzily, her hair swirling, her voice uttering something in English Sasha did not understand, but he understood her need and met it. He sighed. She moaned as they suddenly stopped and met at the same moment.
They remained in that position till he slowly wilted. Then Iris rolled over and lay back on the bed in her room at the Zaray Hotel.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You are very good, you know,” she said.
He did not answer, so Iris continued with, “Your body was hungry, but your thoughts were far away. Are you married?”
“Yes,” he said.
“And your wife is. .?”
“In Kiev with our two children. She left me.”
“Why?”
“Because of mornings like this,” he said. “My clothes. .?”
“I laid them out for you,” she said. “They are unwrinkled.”
“I need to shave,” he said.
“I have extra disposable razors.”
“Elena Timofeyeva will be calling me soon,” he said, sitting up.
“You would rather she not know that we spent the night together? You could get no closer in your responsibility to protect me.”
“The Chief Inspector would not approve,” said Sasha, rising. “He would not be surprised, but he would not approve. I need a shower.”
“May I join you?” Iris said, standing and looking at him.
He shrugged and said, “Yes, of course.”
The lack of enthusiasm for the offer was evident to Iris. She was good at seeing through lies and deceptions. He was bad at hiding them. He was afraid she would want more if she stepped in under the warm shower. He was sure he would want more.
“I think not this time. You have lots of scars. From dissatisfied women?”
“From criminals,” he said. “The razor. .?”
“On the shelf above the sink in a plastic container.”
