knowing smile, and the face one sees on hundreds of Russian men every day.
“I saw you here yesterday,” the man said. “Over by the chess players.”
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “You were on the path walking toward Shavaska Street. You were carrying a grocery bag.”
“Yes,” said the man. “My name is Aleksandr Chenko.” He extended his hand.
Rostnikov took it and said, “I am Chief Inspector Rostnikov of the Office of Special Investigations.”
“May I ask why you spend time here?” asked Aleksandr Chenko.
“Pleasure and business.”
“The Maniac,” said the man knowingly.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov.
“We are all worried about this madman,” said Chenko. “You police have been trying for so long. I hope you catch him soon.”
“We will catch him.”
Aleksandr looked at his conservative black-band Swatch and stood, saying, “I cannot be late for work. Well, we will probably be crossing paths from time to time if you keep coming here. I come this way to get to my work, and when I have time I put some seeds into the bird feeders. You might want to try it. The birds, particularly the pigeons, come right down and perch on your arm if you hold up a palm with a few seeds on it.”
“Your work?”
“My work? Oh, I fill shelves at the Volga Grocery Supermarket on the other side of the park. I am on my way there now. I had better hurry. I don’t want to be late.”
“No.”
“I feel better knowing you are here, Chief Inspector,” said the young man. “Do you play chess?”
“A little.”
“Perhaps we could play a game sometime soon, or are you not allowed to play games while you are on duty?”
“I play games.”
Rostnikov watched as Aleksandr Chenko moved quickly up the path. When Rostnikov was about to lose sight of him behind a bend of bushes, Chenko turned and waved. Rostnikov waved back. When he could no longer see the young man, Rostnikov took out his notebook and pencil and made the following note:
?
Then Porfiry Petrovich went back to reading his book.
6
“I did not call them,” said Albina Babinski.
She sat, as disheveled as she had been the previous day when Vera Korstov had come to her apartment. The widow of Fedot Babinski seemed to be wearing the same house dress and holding the same fingerprint- besmirched glass of vodka.
Vera was certain that the two men who now stood before her were the police.
She considered stepping back quickly, pulling the still-open door closed, and dashing for the stairway. Vera was, after all, a former athlete who still competed from time to time in park district competitions. She could certainly outdistance the slouching, sad-eyed man who stood facing her on her left. She might even be able to make it down the stairs ahead of the broad-shouldered dark man who stood to her right.
What Vera did not know was whether there might be more police waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“You have my two hundred euros?” asked Albina. “You promised. I trusted you.”
“Who are you?” asked Iosef Rostnikov.
“Who are you?” Vera responded.
“I am Inspector Rostnikov. This is Inspector Zelach.”
Zelach moved behind Vera and closed the door. All thought of flight was now gone, so she decided to lie.
“I am a journalist with
“You owe me. .,” Albina muttered but was ignored.
“You have credentials?” asked Iosef.
“I can get them,” said Vera.
“You do not carry them?”
“I have broken no laws,” said Vera.
“I am keeping the money you have already given me,” said Albina. “And that is that.”
“Your identification cards, please,” said Iosef.
Vera reached into the black cloth bag slung over her shoulder. Zelach stood close by, ready in case a weapon was drawn. Vera came up with a wallet and extracted several cards.
Iosef examined the cards and handed them to Zelach, who punched a number into his cell phone. Vera glanced at Zelach and then with a sigh faced the more formidable-looking of the policemen.
Zelach was far more comfortable with a standard phone, one with buttons, one that looked like a phone and not like a box such as the one in which his mother held her daily pills. In truth, Zelach was not comfortable with any phone. He disliked the silences that he was expected to fill.
Vera could hear Zelach talking softly on the phone. Albina, the widow, sat mumbling softly to herself. The policeman named Rostnikov spoke. Vera tried to focus on his words, to buy time for Ivan Medivkin, but the policeman was not selling time.
“You think the weather is really about to change?” Iosef asked.
“Why do you ask me that?” said Vera.
“Because I am trying to bring you back to the conversation from the world in which you appear to be searching for a way to deal with me.”
“I have nothing to say,” she said.
Iosef looked at the window where a lone cluster of gray ice about the size of a hand was slithering down the glass. He nodded and turned to watch Zelach press the “end” button on his phone.
“I have it,” said Zelach.
“Good. Let us go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Vera.
“To your apartment,” said Iosef.
Albina began to rise. Iosef raised a hand to signal to her to resume her seat. She sat reluctantly.
“I am a widow,” said Albina, examining her now-empty glass. “I have rights.”
“And which of those rights do you wish to invoke?” asked Iosef.
The question puzzled the widow, who ran her fingers through her wild hair, allowing her breasts to spread the nightgown.
“Akardy,” said Iosef. “Call for uniformed backup. Have them pick us up here as soon as possible. We may be walking in on Ivan Medivkin.”
Iosef looked at Vera Korstov again.
“Have I guessed correctly?”
“Let me talk to him,” said Vera. “He will not give you trouble.”
“We shall see when we get there,” said Iosef.
“He did not kill them,” she said.
