Hard Currency

water on. When I came out …”

“How long were you in the bathroom?” asked Rostnikov.

“How long? I don’t know. Not long. Not short. More short than long. I didn’t want Maria to leave without me. I went out and there she was, on the green sofa, looks like a dead lizard, the sofa does. Covered with blood. I went to her, touched her, saw the knife, her open eyes. I felt … the panic of an animal. I howled. I wept. Then I heard someone behind me. I picked up the knife. I thought ‘Robbers, Santería,’ but it was them, Carlos, Angelica, Victoria too. Someone screamed. Someone hit me in the face. I don’t know.”

Shemenkov went silent, his eyes focused back in vague time and memory.

“The three witnesses say that they saw him kneeling over the dead woman with a knife in his hand,” said Sanchez. “He turned on them and they thought he was going to attack. Victoria Oliveras kicked Shemenkov in the face.”

“She broke my nose,” wailed Igor Shemenkov. “Look, see here. If you’d have come last week you would have seen only a purple-”

“Your story,” Sanchez prompted. “Remember? Carlos Carerra grabbed the knife. The two of them held our intense amigo here while Angelica called the police.”

“You see?” said Shemenkov.

“See what?” asked Rostnikov.

“Injustice,” said Shemenkov.

“Inspector Timofeyeva and I will go to the apartment,” said Rostnikov. “We will look at it. We will, with the permission and cooperation of the police …”

Rostnikov looked to Sanchez, who nodded.

“… examine the apartment, talk to the witnesses.”

“I am innocent,” said Shemenkov emphatically.

“There is no rear entrance to the apartment,” said Sanchez. “There is only one stairway out of the building. All three witnesses say that no one passed them going up or down the stairs.”

“A neighbor,” said Shemenkov.

Sanchez shook his head.

“There is one other apartment on that floor. There was no one home. The door was locked. That is the top floor.”

“I did not do this,” Shemenkov repeated. “If there were anything left to swear to, I would do it. No God. No Party. I swear on … on …”

“You loved her every hair,” said Sanchez.

“Every hair,” agreed Shemenkov. “I did not kill her.”

“A crowd gathered almost immediately after the murder,” Sanchez went on, a look of distant boredom on his face. “One woman, a flower vendor, was walking by outside. She said she heard a howl of pain from the window. She stopped and stood there till the police came. She says no one came out of the building.”

“Hiding,” said Shemenkov, looking hopefully at Elena. “The killer was hiding until …”

“Building was searched, up, down, everywhere. There is no other way out,” countered Sanchez.

“A window?” said Shemenkov.

“First- and second-floor windows were locked from inside,” Sanchez responded. “The apartment is on the top floor. There have been eleven break-ins in the neighborhood in the past month.”

Shemenkov’s eyes scanned the room looking for answers. There were none there.

Rostnikov leaned forward and touched the bewildered man’s arm. Shemenkov tried to focus on the homely face before him but seemed unable to find him.

“Igor Shemenkov,” said, Rostnikov. “Do you have a diminutive, a name your friends and family call you?”

“No.”

“He is called Perets,” said Sanchez wearily. “Pepper.” He looked at Elena.

Rostnikov nodded.

Shemenkov seemed to awaken just a bit from his stupor. He looked at Elena.

“It seems our Russian adviser has a temper,” explained Sanchez. “That’s how he got the name.”

“I didn’t …” Shemenkov began. Then he shook his head and placed his wide palm on his forehead, as if checking for a temperature.

“I have a hobby,” said Shemenkov suddenly. “I make miniature animals from the shells of coconuts. With these hands. Would a man who does such a delicate thing murder like that?”

“I think you’ve hit upon a flawless defense,” said Sanchez.

Rostnikov rose awkwardly, nodded to Elena to take the file, and stepped around the little table to help Shemenkov to his feet. Throughout the ten or so minutes of sitting, Rostnikov’s leg had pulled at him like a spoiled child demanding attention. It was not quite pain, but a nagging dull shock, a demanding tightness. It was difficult to move.

“Rise, Shemenkov,” he said, pulling the dazed Russian into a standing position. “Officer Timofeyeva and I, with the help of the Cuban police”-he looked again at Major Sanchez, who smiled cooperatively-“will conduct a complete investigation.”

“You are in a hurry to go home,” said Shemenkov. “Or you want a vacation here. You won’t help me.”

“Officer Timofeyeva and I will not leave Cuba until we know who murdered Maria Fernandez.”

“That’s all I ask,” said Shemenkov, wearily holding out his hands.

Sanchez had walked to the door and opened it. A burly man in a blue uniform and a blue baseball cap entered the room. Sanchez nodded toward Shemenkov and the burly policeman stepped forward and touched his arm.

“Venga,” the policeman said in a high voice that surprised Rostnikov.

Shemenkov was ushered out without another word. When the door was closed, Sanchez looked first at Elena, who had stood up, and then at Rostnikov.

“Forgive my intrusions,” said Sanchez. “But we have many crimes-more each day as our people become more desperate. Not long ago we boasted that there was almost no murder, no violence in Cuba, but now … The man is guilty. If he were not Russian, he would have been tried and convicted.”

“I would like Elena Timofeyeva to talk to Victoria Oliveras,” said Rostnikov.

Sanchez nodded.

“She is in a women’s prison not far in the countryside. I will have Señorita Timofeyeva taken there when you wish.”

“And I would like to talk to Carlos and Angelica Carerra.”

“They speak no Russian. I don’t know if they speak English. I will be pleased to translate. Anything else?”

“Something to eat, perhaps?”

“I should have offered,” said Sanchez, smiling at Elena. “You know he is guilty, your Russian.”

“With certainty at the moment, I know only that I am tired and hungry,” said Rostnikov.

FOUR

The door to Paulinin’s basement laboratory in the Petrovka Police Station was unmarked and unnumbered. Dozens had mistaken it for a rest room. If the odors did not convince them of their error when they opened the door, the sights that greeted them made it instantly clear that they had blundered into madness.

Karpo entered Paulinin’s sanctuary at ten on the night of the murder of Iliana Ivanova, whose name he did not yet know.

Karpo’s distaste for the sprawling room had nothing to do with the odors nor the glass containers filled with greenish liquid and the remnants of body parts. It was the lack of order that displeased him.

In one corner stood a quartet of unpainted plaster statues of religious figures. In another corner, tucked