A Whisper to the Living

not to return to Moscow. Sasha had told him this. Zelach had given him sympathy but no advice.

Akardy Zelach slouched forward, face close to his plate of yazyk and vinegret, his eyes on his food, his thoughts with his mother at home too ill to come to the party. Zelach longed for a way to leave, and then Porfiry Petrovich appeared before him and said, “How is your mother?”

“Poorly.”

“You should be with her.”

“Yes.”

“Go. Bring her some food. Tell her I hope that she will get well soon. Go.”

Porfiry Petrovich smiled and touched Zelach’s arm and then repeated, “Go.”

“Thank you. I will just finish this quickly.”

“And you, Emil Karpo, are you well?” asked Rostnikov.

“Perfectly,” said Karpo.

Rostnikov decided not to press the issue, not at his son’s wedding reception, but knew that something was troubling the gaunt detective. Karpo’s emotionless façade had been showing subtle signs of distress, which Rostnikov was reasonably sure that no one but he would notice.

“Good,” said Rostnikov, turning to make his way back through the crowd.

Anna Timofeyeva left first. Escorted by Elena’s cousin. Porfiry Petrovich guided them through the crowd and down the stairs. At the curb stood an unmarked police car for which Rostnikov had arranged.

Just before Anna got into the car, she did something she had never done before. She touched and then kissed the cheek of her former chief investigator and said, “Rad za tebya, I am happy for you.”

After two hours of pressing bodies, loud and shrill voices that created an unpleasant cacophony, Colonel Igor Yaklovev looked at his pocket watch. Time to leave. He had given the couple a suitable gift of cash and had wished them the best. Iosef sensed a slight tension in the Yak’s good-bye to him. Iosef had long shown signs of often-sullen disagreement with some of the work he had been assigned to do and some of the lies he was forced to tell. His father had kept him in line, and Iosef had performed with distinction.

The Yak had met with Porfiry Petrovich while he was in the hospital. They had agreed that when Iosef and Elena returned they would no longer be teamed on an investigation. Porfiry Petrovich, however, took issue with the Yak’s wish that Rostnikov not team with either his son or new daughter-in-law.

Colonel Yaklovev reconsidered. The decision that Porfiry Petrovich not work with Elena or Iosef had been a wish, not an order. Had it been an order, the Colonel was sure his Chief Inspector would have acquiesced.

Pankov left the party with Colonel Yaklovev. He felt that he may have given a greater cash gift than necessary. He had asked his highly unreliable neighbor Mrs. Olga Ferinova how much he should give. Olga Ferinova, a huge woman who supervised two street-cleaning crews, was certain about everything. She had told him what was proper, and he had done it.

On the way out, the Yak almost bumped into eleven-year-old Laura, who looked up at him and stopped laughing. Once outside, the Yak climbed into the waiting black police car at the curb. Pankov followed. The Yak had work to do.

With the departure of Colonel Yaklovev, the party got even louder and the vodka began to flow even more freely.

Zelach was next to leave, with a bag of food Lydia Tkach had prepared for his mother. He shook the hands of bride and groom. Iosef held Zelach’s hand a bit longer than he would hold others. Iosef smiled and Akardy returned the smile. When he touched Elena’s hand, he felt again that she held something back. She seemed to sense that he knew her secret. She gave him a reassuring touch on the arm.

Emil Karpo stepped through the dwindling crowd, shook the hands of Porfiry Petrovich, Sara, Elena, and Iosef, and left without a word. The departure of the ghostly figure in black further emboldened the remaining guests to consume even more vodka. More bottles were brought out. The empty ones were carried clinking to the cartons from which they had come.

A few of the now-drunken neighbors had to be politely urged to return to their apartments by Sara and Porfiry Petrovich. That left only Maya, Sasha, their children, and Lydia, in addition to Galina and her granddaughters. Maya had risen from the sofa to join her mother-in-law, Galina, and Sara in cleaning up, which they did with efficiency. Sasha watched his wife for signs of her intent to stay or go back to Kiev. He could detect nothing. He prided himself on his ability to see the small signs of intent in suspects. It was an ability he could not exercise on his wife. The children, a plate of food in each lap, sat on the floor of the now nearly empty living room.

The bride and groom moved to the bedroom to be alone before leaving for a four-day honeymoon in Yalta.

“Sit,” she said, gently ordering Iosef to his parents’ bed.

He obeyed and she paced nervously, touching the unfamiliar ring on her finger.

“I have to tell you something,” she said. “I should have told you this before we were married.”

“You mean about the baby?” he said, looking up at her.

She stopped fidgeting and pacing and met his eyes.

“You know.”

“I am a detective,” he said with a grin.

“And?”

“A girl would be nice. So would a boy.”

“My aunt knows,” she said.

“Do you want to tell your parents?”

“Certainly.”

He stood now. She moved into his arms with a sigh of great relief.

“I love you,” she said.

“I know,” he said.

The couple thanked Iosef’s mother and father when there was no one else in the apartment and the door finally closed. At that point, Elena told Sara and Porfiry Petrovich that they were going to be grandparents.

17

Talking to the Dead, He Misses the Wedding

Only one invited guest did not show up for the wedding party.

On the night before the wedding, Paulinin slept on the cot in his laboratory within a dozen feet of the two corpses laid out gently on two slabs. One was a male. The other a female. Both were covered by gray-blue sheets, the man’s just above his waist, the woman’s up to her neck. They were two corpses seemingly unrelated except for their means of death. She was forty-two, well dressed, well proportioned, decidedly handsome, and decidedly peaceful in death. He was an alcoholic of perhaps sixty years of age, underweight, ill clothed. If the killer had not selected him, he would have been destined to die within the year from a final rebellion of his organs.

Paulinin had slept five hours. When he rose, he had completely forgotten the wedding. Buoyed by hot coffee and the ever-present laboratory smells, he was prepared to talk to the dead. The white mug had blue printing on the side saying: “Police Target Champion 1987.”

Paulinin fired at no targets. The mug had been given to him years ago, though he could not remember by whom. He chose to ignore the three dark brown ring stains inside the mug as he drank.

And then he made his phone call.

“Paulinin,” answered Porfiry Petrovich after the third ring. “Do you know what time it is?”

“No.”

“And you do not care?”

“No. I have information.”