'Do you think he was suicidal?'
'Yes. At the same time, he was a survivor.'
'Do you think, considering everything, he killed himself?'
'He could have. Did he? You're the investigator.' Her face shifted into a sympathetic frown. 'I'm sorry, I wish I could help you more. Would you like a cigar? It's Cuban.'
'No, thank you. Do you smoke?'
'When I was a girl, all the modern, interesting women smoked cigars. You'd look good with a cigar. One more thing, Investigator. I got the impression that there was a cyclical nature to Ivanov's bouts of depression. Always in the spring, always early in May. In fact, right after May Day. But I must confess, May Day always deeply depressed me, too.'
It wasn't easy to find an unfashionable restaurant among the Irish pubs and sushi bars in the center of Moscow, but Victor succeeded. He and Arkady had macaroni and grease served at a stand-up cafeteria around the corner from the militia headquarters on Petrovka. Arkady was happy with black tea and sugar, but Victor had a daily requirement of carbohydrates that was satisfied best by beer. From his briefcase Victor took morgue photos of Ivanov, frontal, dorsal and head shot, and spread them between the plates. One side of Ivanov's face was white, the other side black.
Victor said, 'Dr. Toptunova said she didn't autopsy suicides. I asked her, 'What about your curiosity, your professional pride? What about poisons or psychotropic drugs?' She said they'd have to do biopsies, tests, waste the precious resources of the state. We agreed on fifty dollars. I figure Hoffman is good for that.'
'Toptunova is a butcher.' Arkady really didn't want to look at the pictures.
'You don't find Louis Pasteur doing autopsies for the militia. Thank God she operates on the dead. Anyway, she says Ivanov broke his neck. Fuck your mother, I could have told them that. And if it hadn't been his neck, it would have been his skull. Drugwise, he was clean, although she thought he had ulcers from the condition of his stomach. There was one odd thing. In his stomach? Bread and salt.'
'Salt?'
'A lot of salt and just enough bread to get it down.'
'She didn't mention anything about his complexion?'
'What was to mention? It was mainly one big bruise. I questioned the doorman and lobby receptionist again. They have the same story: no problems, no breach. Then some guy with dachshunds tried to pick me up. I showed him my ID to shake him up, you know, and he says, 'Oh, are they having another security check?' Saturday the building staff shut down the elevator and went to every apartment to check who was in. The guy was still upset. His dachshunds couldn't wait and had a little accident.'
'Which means there was a breach. When did they do this check?'
Victor consulted his notebook. 'Eleven-ten in the morning at his place. He's on the ninth floor, and I think they worked their way down.'
'Good work.' Arkady couldn't imagine who would want to pick up Victor, but applause was indicated.
'A different subject.' Victor laid down a picture of two buckets and mops. 'These I found in the lobby of the building across from Ivanov's. Abandoned, but the name of the cleaning service was on them, and I found who left them. Vietnamese. They didn't see Ivanov dive; they ran when they saw militia cars, because they're illegals.'
Menial tasks that Russians wouldn't do, Vietnamese would. They came as 'guest workers' and went into hiding when their visas expired. Their wardrobe was the clothes on their back, their accommodations a workers' hostel, their family connection the money they sent home once a month. Arkady could understand laborers who slipped into the golden tent of America, but to sneak into the mouse-eaten sack that was Russia, that was desperate.
'There's more.' Victor picked macaroni off his chest. The detective had changed his gray sweater for one of caterpillar orange. He licked his fingers clean, gathered the photos and replaced them with a file that said in red: not to be removed from this office.
'Dossiers on the four attempts on Ivanov's life. This is rich. First attempt was a doorway shooting here in Moscow by a disgruntled investor, a schoolteacher whose savings were wiped out. The poor bastard misses six times. Tries to shoot himself in the head and misses again. Makhmud Nasir. Got four years-not bad. Here's his address, back in town. Maybe he's got glasses now.
'Second attempt is hearsay, but everyone swears it's true. Ivanov rigged an auction for some ships in Archangel, got them for nothing and also bent some local noses out of shape. A competitor sends a contract killer, who blows up Ivanov's car. Ivanov is impressed, finds the killer and pays him double to murder the man who sent him, and shortly after, supposedly, a guy falls in the water in Archangel and doesn't come up for air.
'Third: Ivanov took the train to Leningrad. Why the train, don't ask. On the way, you know how it is, someone pumps sleeping gas into the compartment to rob the passengers, usually the tourists. Ivanov is a light sleeper. He wakes, sees this guy coming in and shoots him. Everyone said it was an overreaction until they found a razor and a picture of Ivanov in the dead man's coat. He also had some worthless Ivanov stock.
'Fourth, and this is the best: Ivanov is in the South of France with friends. They're all zipping back and forth on Jet Skis, the way rich people carry on. Hoffman gets on Ivanov's Jet Ski, and it sinks. It flips upside down, and guess what's stuck to the bottom, a little limpet of plastique ready to explode. The French police had to clear the harbor. See, that's what gives Russian tourists a bad name.'
'Who were Ivanov's friends?' Arkady asked.
'Leonid Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch, his very best friends. And one of them probably tried to kill him.'
'Was there an investigation?'
'Are you joking? You know our chances of even saying hello to any of these gentlemen? Anyway, that was three years ago, and nothing has happened since.'
'Fingerprints?'
'Worst for last. We got prints off all the drinking glasses. Just Ivanov's, Timofeyev's, Zurin's and the girl's.'
'What about Pasha's mobile phone? He always had a mobile phone.'
'We're not positive.'
'Find the mobile phone. Ivanov's driver said he had one.'
'While you're doing what?'
'Colonel Ozhogin has arrived.'
'That's right.'
Victor saw things in a different light. 'I'll look for the mobile phone.'
'The head of NoviRus Security wants to consult.'
'He wants to consult your balls on a toothpick. If Ivanov was pushed, how does that make the head of security look? Did you ever see Ozhogin wrestle? I saw him in an all-republic tournament-he broke his opponent's arm. You could hear it snap across the hall. You know, even if we did find a mobile phone, Ozhogin would take it away. He answers to Timofeyev now. The king is dead, long live the king.' Victor lit a cigarette as a digestif. 'The thing about capitalism, it seems to me, is, a business partner has the perfect combination of motive and opportunity for murder. Oh hey, I got something for you.' Victor came up with a plastic phone card.
'What's this for? A free call?' Arkady knew that Victor had strange ways of sharing a bill.
'No. Well, I don't know, but what it's great for…' Victor jimmied the card between two fingers. 'Locks. Not dead bolts, but you'd be amazed. I got one, and I got one for you, too. Put it in your wallet.'
'Almost like money.'
Two young men settled at the next table with bowls of ravioli. They wore the jackets and stringy ties of office workers. They also had the shaved skulls and scabby knuckles of skinheads, which meant they might be office drudges during the day, but at night they led an intoxicating life of violence patterned on Nazi storm troopers and British hooligans.
One gave Arkady a glare and said, 'What are you looking at? What are you, a pervert?'
Victor brightened. 'Hit him, Arkady. Go ahead, hit the punk, I'll back you up.'
'No, thanks,' Arkady said.
'A little fisticuffs, a little dustup,' Victor said. 'Go on, you can't let him talk like that. We're a block from headquarters, you'll let the whole side down.'
