Tatiana

“Well, I learned she was a woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“You figure it out, you’re the investigator. I’ll only say this: Tatiana Petrovna was a fighter. She never jumped from any balcony.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no case and no body.”

“I know. People say you’re crazy.” Abdul threw punches in the air. “They really do. They say you’re nuts. I saw you at Grisha’s funeral giving his son, Alexi, a tough time. And you don’t carry a gun? That’s lunatic.”

“There’s no case.”

“If you care, there’s always a case. Hey, I want your opinion. I have a second DVD.”

“Another?”

“Tatiana thought the video needed, maybe, a little balance. To expand my base, you know.” He nodded toward the door. “My friends are my friends but artistically, they’re bricks.”

“Go ahead.” Why not another bath of testosterone? Arkady thought. So far as he could tell, the only information that Abdul had provided was an insinuation that he had slept with Tatiana, a boast she was too dead to deny.

It was the same DVD with the same combination of vanity and gore. Identical, except for a closing shot of Abdul looking directly at the camera as a tear coursed down his cheek.

“Empathy,” Abdul said.

“By the ton.”

• • •

Shagelman did a good imitation of a cretin. His shirt and suit were a size too small, so that his tattoos seemed to creep out of his cuffs. His smile was a simpleton’s grin, lit by two gold teeth. He said virtually nothing. At Mafia councils, he was mute. Later, he would go home to the kitchen of his apartment and report every word to his wife, Valentina, while she sharpened her knives and sliced meat, peppers and onions for shish kebab. Shagelman always cried when she cut the onions.

Valentina did not approve of Tatiana. “A woman’s place is in the home, listening to a husband, helping him, guiding him, not drawing attention to herself.”

Without drawing attention to herself, Valentina had built a fortune out of public construction done in her husband’s name.

She insisted on serving Arkady and her husband black tea and cookies in the living room that was a nest of tapestries and Persian rugs. With her hair drawn in a bun she looked like a tea cozy herself.

“I can’t say I’m sorry that Tatiana Petrovna has passed. She always had good things to say about the Chechens and bad things to say about Russia. It’s a terrible thing to say, but good riddance.”

“Do you think someone might have actually felt the same and harmed her?”

“I’m only saying that Tatiana Petrovna was a traitor and a whore.”

Isaac Shagelman kept his gaze down and out of trouble.

Valentina stirred strawberry jam into her tea. “Don’t you think Grisha Grigorenko had a dignified funeral service?”

Well, yes, Arkady thought. Except for the bullet hole in the back of his head. “Were Grisha and Tatiana friends?”

The question took Valentina by surprise.

“People said so. I don’t pay attention to such rumors. Grisha liked to take chances. He took up waterskiing. I told him, waterskiing is for grandchildren. Him and his boat!”

“What was it called?”

“Natalya Goncharova. Such a boat.”

On a side table, Arkady noticed a short stack of glossy calendars from something called the Curonian Bank. He had never heard of it but the Shagelmans were known for setting up banks that were little more than slick catalogs and shell games. The cover photo was of a pelican swallowing a fish.

“A pretty picture.” He picked up a calendar.

“Take one, please.”

“Is there any connection to Curonian Renaissance, the real estate developer?”

“Hmm.” Valentina found something at the bottom of her cup to stir.

“Wasn’t Curonian Renaissance trying to develop the building where Tatiana Petrovna lived?”

“I suppose so.”

“Wasn’t she holding up the project?”

“You know, people like Tatiana Petrovna act as if gentrification is a dirty word. We are going to build a beautiful shopping mall with over a hundred stores. Chips fly when you’re chopping wood.”

“That’s what everybody tells me,” Arkady said.

• • •

Ivan “Ape” Beledon was proud of living in a dacha that had once been a country residence of the KGB. No rustic cabin this, instead a spa with a pool, tennis court, masseur, mud bath, billiard table, cigar humidor and bodyguards indoors and out.

Ape Beledon and Arkady sat by the tennis court. The Mafia chief had stripped to swim trunks and showed off spindly arms and a back of thick hairs that wafted in the breeze. No one called him Ape in his presence, and although he specialized in the trafficking of drugs, he dismissed anyone in his organization who “tasted the goods,” as he put it.

His two sons were playing on the court and Ape looked benignly in their direction from time to time. “They have it so easy, they don’t know. Respect is dead.”

“Do you ever play them?”

“Do I look crazy? They hang out a lot with Grisha’s son, Alexi. Ambitious kids. I once saw Yeltsin play Pavarotti on this tennis court. Now, that was a game.” Beledon sorted through an array of vitamins and fruit on a silver tray. “Boris hit every ball hard, no matter what. Pavarotti’s weight was misleading. He could have been a professional soccer player. The look on Yeltsin’s face when Pavarotti played a drop shot. I wiped away tears. The question is, what was the look on Grisha’s face when someone put a pistol to his head? Was it surprise or resignation? To die is one thing; to be betrayed is another. It all depends on who the ‘someone’ is, right? The relationship.” Ape stopped to applaud an ace. “Don’t you love kids? Not a care in the world. Remember Brando in The Godfather? Has a heart attack playing with his grandson. That’s the way to go. Family. Of course, it helps if the kid’s an earner. Develops business. Shows a little ambition. Although there’s such a thing as too much ambition too soon. That can create conflicts. Take you, for example. So far as I can tell, the only thing you were supposed to be doing was finding the body of Tatiana Petrovna, who, by the way, I always held in high regard despite the fact we were on opposite sides of the fence, so to speak. Okay. But she’s been found, at least her ashes. What are you after now? You tell me.”

“I’m after whoever killed her,” Arkady said.

“See? An honest answer. I like that. No official authority, no waiting for a prosecutor to find his dick, just stubborn determination. Whose ox is gored? That’s what to look for. Who benefits. Here, take some pills with you. You look like you could use a little vitamin C. And D.” Ape got to his feet. “The boys will show you out.”

“I thought we were going to talk about Tatiana Petrovna.”

“We did.”

• • •

Victor still hadn’t answered his phone. He wasn’t at the Den or any of the half dozen bars or stand-up cafeterias with steamy windows that he frequented. Finally, Arkady tried the Armory, a watering hole for frontier guards. Victor was in a rear booth, ashamed at being found but-as if his legs had been sawed off-unable to leave his new comrades.

“Wait, these are very educated gentlemen.”

“Let’s go,” Arkady said.

“Their words are few but profound.”

Two faces with lopsided grins looked up at Arkady.

“He’s our buddy.”