Daniel prided himself on his principles. The girls had to be examined every two weeks by a physician who was also on the payroll. If one was found to be ill or have a disease, she was given a bonus commensurate with her level and sent home, never to return. If a client abused a girl, he would, depending on his station in life, be warned or punished. Street trade customers were beaten and warned. Upper-level customers were informed that their abuse had been recorded on tape, which it had.
Daniel Volkovich was very successful at his profession, and at the age of forty-two he was a very wealthy and important man. Daniel was a tall man with the smiling clean-shaven face of the kind of movie or television actor who plays a policeman or an earnest politician. His well-groomed prematurely white hair was brushed back. Daniel always wore a knowing smile that suggested he could read your thoughts. Daniel’s mother had been a prostitute, as had his grandmother. He learned the business as he learned to walk and talk.
Now, his enterprise and his good name were threatened by the Englishwoman. It was not the first time a reporter or the representatives of some international do-good organization had posed a threat. Such people from the West were not easily dissuaded or deceived. Such people on occasion had to be eliminated.
“I can discern no pattern,” said Emil Karpo.
He and Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov were seated in the Chief Inspector’s office in Petrovka and had been for the past five hours. Records, forensic reports, calendars, weather reports, a chart of phases of the moon, photographs of the Maniac’s victims, and much more were piled in front of them.
“Review,” said Rostnikov reaching for the tea in his Eighty-seventh Precinct mug. It would be their third review of the morning, none of which had suggested a new approach. They spoke slowly so that Pankov or the Yak, who would be listening either now or to the tape, could take notes.
The dogs in the kennel across the courtyard were barking. In the years of listening to them, Porfiry Petrovich had learned to discern the different barks. There was a slow bark with a slight catch deep in the throat that indicated hunger. A rapid higher-pitched bark indicated tedium. A moaning bark suggested that someone had hit one of the dogs who had called out in fear and sympathy. Later in the day the dogs would not be barking as they sniffed through Bitsevsky Park pulling a uniformed officer behind, searching for the dead.
“He kills on any day of the week,” said Rostnikov. “No pattern. It might be two Tuesdays in a row and then a Saturday and then a Friday. He can kill for three straight days and then wait a month before taking another victim. Phases of the moon show no consistency. There is no pattern of holidays or birthdays or days of historical or newsworthy significance.”
He leaned back and took a sip of his no-longer-hot tea.
“The positions of the bodies seem random,” Karpo went on. “Nothing about the clothing of the victims or their health informs us. He seems to prefer men over the age of fifty-eight, but he has also killed two young women.”
“One of whom he decorated with wooden spikes in her eyes,” said Rostnikov, holding up a photograph to look at the grisly work of the Maniac.
“All of the killings seem to have been done at night, and he is drawn to Bitsevsky Park.”
“Emil Karpo, are we missing something?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
Rostnikov scratched the stump of his leg thoughtfully. Then he turned his chair and looked out the window.
“The weather is breaking,” he said. “The temperature is supposed to reach forty-five degrees.”
Karpo nodded.
Rostnikov reached into the top drawer of his desk.
“I have never heard you whistle, Emil Karpo.”
“I have never felt the need.”
“To make music,” said Rostnikov, gently placing an odd squash-shaped instrument on the desk in front of him.
“The appeal of music is unknown to me. I feel no need for it. It is a functionless distraction.”
“You are a true romantic,” said Rostnikov.
“I do not believe I am.”
“I was engaging in irony.”
“I see.”
Rostnikov picked up the ocarina he had taken from his desk drawer, placed it to his lips, and blew, slowly working his fingers over a line of small holes. A piping of music emerged.
“Here,” said Rostnikov, handing it across the desk. “It is yours. When you feel the inclination, make music.”
Karpo took the ocarina and placed it in front of him.
“Now I think I will take a walk in the park,” said Rostnikov.
“He is going for a walk in the park,” said Pankov.
Colonel Igor Yaklovev, sitting at his desk under the framed discreetly sized print of the face of Lenin, looked up at his short, always nervous assistant. One of the many reasons Pankov was perspiring was that the Yak looked very much like the Lenin in the print above Yaklovev’s head. He had cultivated the resemblance decades earlier and maintained it throughout the fall of the Soviet Union and the fickle changes in the government. It was a safe resemblance. Were it not, the Yak would see to it that he bore no similarity to the founder of the Revolution.
“Did he say why?” asked the Yak.
“No.”
“Did he say which park?”
“No, he did not,” said Pankov.
“Guess.”
“Bitsevsky.”
“Good.”
Pankov went silent, anxious to get away from the Yak. Pankov did not do well in the presence of power, which was, as even he knew, an irony, because few in the government were as fervently but patiently seeking power as the Yak. On several dozen occasions, Pankov had taken phone calls directly from one of the assistants of Vladimir Putin himself. This caused near panic in Pankov, but once, and he was certain of this, Putin himself had come on the line, thinking that he would be speaking directly to Yaklovev. Pankov had almost passed out as he identified himself and transferred the call. His hands had trembled. Perspiration on his forehead had beaded, and his underwear had tightened with moisture.
“The journalist?” asked the Yak, folding his hands in front of him on the desk.
“Tkach and Timofeyeva are taking Iris Templeton to talk to people for her story.”
“I want a list of everyone she talks to.”
“Yes.”
Yaklovev made a note. This information might prove useful, especially if one of the supposedly tough mafiosi in the prostitution business was potentially compromised or embarrassed and the Yak could help him in exchange for future considerations.
“The boxer has not yet been found,” Pankov added.
Yaklovev cared little about that. Rostnikov’s annoying son and the slouching Zelach would find Medivkin, though that might not in any way add to the popularity or power of the Office of Special Investigations. Taking on such no-win cases was the price one sometimes had to pay for ultimate success.
“Go home, Pankov,” Yaklovev said.
“I still-”
“Go home,” the Yak repeated with a smile his assistant would have preferred not to see.
“Yes, thank you,” Pankov said.
The sun would be going down within the hour. This early release would give Pankov time to pick up a few groceries, particularly a few more boxes of oatmeal. Pankov almost lived on oatmeal made with water and
