“Chenko approached you when you came to look at the park,” said Rostnikov.
“I do not remember. There were so many suspects.”
“He approached you and wanted to talk to you, to tell you about his theories concerned with the murders. You told him to leave.”
“He is an annoying, bitter man,” said Tarasov.
“Like me?”
“You are very annoying, but you do not appear to be bitter.”
“In your investigation, did you come across the last name of a missing young woman named Hannah?” asked Rostnikov. “I see nothing about it in the file, but I have not looked closely enough perhaps. And if she is not in here, I will find her.”
The Major was not smiling.
“Chenko was questioned about six years ago about the disappearance of the girl,” said Tarasov. “He was released.”
“And the young man, the girl’s fiancé?”
“An accidental death.”
“Fell from a window accidentally,” said Rostnikov. “Like your wife.”
No more need be said. The ghost of Tarasov’s wife stood in the corner.
“Perhaps we will talk again soon,” said Rostnikov, leaving the office.
Pankov was mopping his forehead with an already moist handkerchief when Rostnikov entered the outer office of the Yak. The little man behind the desk stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket. He was certain Rostnikov had seen him, had added a mental note of evidence to his already substantial collection about the existence of Pankov’s fear.
“You have arrived early,” said Pankov.
“I ran all the way,” said Rostnikov, stepping forward in his awkward gait, a file folder in his hand.
Pankov’s smile came out as a nervous tic. He picked up the phone from his desk and punched in the Yak’s number, hoping that he was not disturbing the Colonel. The Yak had never really chastised or punished Pankov for errors small or great, but he lived in perpetual dread of the moment when the Yak entered a state of fury.
“Chief Inspector Rostnikov is here,” Pankov announced.
He moved the phone several inches away from his ear lest the Yak send a threatening sound. The Yak smoothly told his frightened assistant to send in the Chief Inspector.
“You may go in.”
Rostnikov shifted the file folder to his left hand and moved to the inner office door as Pankov set the phone back gently in the cradle on his desk.
Rostnikov’s mind held momentarily to the question of handkerchiefs as he opened the Yak’s door. No one used handkerchiefs anymore, at least no one Rostnikov knew, except for Pankov. Had the man an aversion to paper tissues? How did he clean the handkerchiefs? In a washing machine? In the kitchen sink? Did he strip to his underwear to iron them as he stood before the television watching and listening to the late news?
The Yak, head shaven, imperially slim in a dark blue suit with a pale blue tie, sat not behind his desk but at the conference table to Rostnikov’s right. There was nothing on the shining table except a pad of white paper and a fine-point pen at a place opposite the Yak. For an instant, Rostnikov imagined Pankov furiously using his handkerchief to coax out the nearly perfect finish on the table.
Rostnikov placed the folder he had brought on the table and sat with the white pad and pen in front of him. Porfiry Petrovich was certain that the conversation would be recorded and, given the nature of what he was about to impart, was reasonably certain that most, if not all, would be edited and deleted.
“I have approved five days’ leave for both your son and Elena Timofeyeva for their wedding and honeymoon.”
“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.
“That is provided their departure will not stop the progress of ongoing investigations.”
The Yak fixed his eyes on those of Rostnikov, who picked up the pen and began taking notes.
“If need be, Inspector Karpo can assist Inspector Zelach in the pursuit of the boxer and Inspector Tkach can continue his mission of protecting the British journalist with the assistance of two assigned people from the uniformed division.”
Rostnikov wrote a single word in small block letters, “Yalta,” and put a dark box about it to remind himself to confirm the honeymoon arrangements.
“Zelach and Tkach,” Yaklovev said. “The former does not and never has impressed me, and the latter continues to appear to be unstable.”
“I trust them both,” said Rostnikov, starting to draw a square with a circle inside touching the top, bottom, and both sides of the square.
That was what the Yak wanted on record and what Porfiry Petrovich was quite willing to give.
“You will be coming to the wedding?” asked Rostnikov.
The Yak shifted his weight in the chair. The invitation had been a surprise to him, as it had been to Rostnikov. Porfiry Petrovich could not remember ever having seen the Colonel uneasy. Now Rostnikov expected an excuse or a lie or a simple “no.”
“Yes.”
Rostnikov expected the wedding gathering would consist of, as other such weddings did, hours of eating, noise, and drinking. Rostnikov could not imagine this officious man at any informal function.
“It will be an honor,” said Rostnikov. “And, of course, I will when I leave remind Pankov that he has agreed to come.”
The box with the word “Yalta” inside was now upon the head of stick figure of a man with a crude hammer in one hand and a can marked “Soup” in the other. The man was standing on a compact disc. Yes. Rostnikov owned a compact disc player given to him by his son. Gradually, slowly, Rostnikov’s collection of cassette tapes was being replaced with CDs of his favorites-Dinah Washington, Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Eckstine, Sarah Vaughan, the Basie band, and Italian opera.
The Yak sat silently waiting for the reason his Chief Inspector had asked them to meet. In response to the unasked question, Rostnikov stood, but not completely, and pushed the file folder in front of the Colonel, who opened it.
“One year ago Major Aloyosha Tarasov, who was then in charge of the investigation of the Bitsevsky Park murders, allowed a very suspicious suspect to walk free after being held for sixteen hours and interrogated.”
“A very suspicious suspect?” asked the Yak, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to extract a pair of glasses and perch them on his nose.
“The suspect was and continues to be almost certainly the murderer,” said Rostnikov.
The Yak read quickly, turning pages in the file, pausing once to say, “Aleksandr Chenko?”
Rostnikov nodded “yes” and added, “Notes on the interrogation of Chenko are reasonably conclusive, but the interrogator stopped just short of extracting a confession.”
“The interrogator was. .?”
“Major Tarasov.”
“And General Misovenski knew this?”
“His initials are on the last page.”
“Why did they let Chenko go and why did they not destroy this file?”
“Aleksandr Chenko claims to be the nephew of the Prime Minister,” said Rostnikov.
“How do you know this?”
“Internet family tree. Emil Karpo found it. There is a Chenko on the Putin family tree.”
The Yak was shaking his head in understanding.
“And you are sure this Aleksandr Chenko is one of the family on that tree?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “I think he may be taking advantage of a coincidental name.”
“Misovenski and Tarasov were taking no chances. They did not want to embarrass the Prime Minister by exposing his nephew as one of the worst serial killers in the history of Russia.”
“Almost certainly the worst,” said Rostnikov.
