The Master Of Rain

“What do you mean?”

“A little Russian princess. A whore. Bit of a playful end. Why would anyone care about that?” He looked at Field, his piggy eyes burning with angry intensity. “You care about it, Field, why is that?”

“She was murdered.”

“She was a Russian prostitute.”

“So it doesn’t matter?”

Maretsky hesitated. “Is that a philosophical question or a practical one?”

“It’s just about doing a job . . .”

“Oh, is it? Of course. How foolish of me.” He turned back to his desk. “We work within our limitations here, Mr. Field, and if you haven’t learned that, you soon will.”

“You mean you do.”

“I mean I do, yes. I can see you’re not a member of the club, but a bright young man . . .” He smiled. “It won’t last, so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Field tried not to betray his confusion. “Tell me about this case, Maretsky.”

“You’re the detective.”

“So Lu can do whatever he likes?”

Maretsky faced him again. “Please, I have work to do.”

“Tell me about him.”

“You really don’t understand, do you?”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Don’t patronize you?” Maretsky sighed deeply. “All right, I’m sorry, I’m just not used to idealism.” He breathed out again. “Or perhaps I should say ignorance. You seem to be . . . energetic, but what will happen if you pursue this case with any vigor is that you will make a certain amount of headway and then you won’t get any further. If you get somewhere close to the truth, it will become very dangerous for you. As to evidence, forget it. Witnesses will be too frightened to speak, and will be eliminated if they are foolish enough to do so.” He rolled his eyes. “This is Lu’s girl. He killed her himself, or gave her to someone else for the purpose—it doesn’t much matter.”

“But we can still establish the truth, can’t we? Or do you consider that naive, too? We can still determine whether the murder was carried out by Lu himself, and if not, who it is he is protecting and why.”

Maretsky didn’t answer.

“Will he do it again?”

“Probably.”

“Has he done it before?”

Maretsky hesitated. “Possibly. I can’t be sure. We have no record of anything like . . . specifically like this, and the French say they have none . . . but . . .”

Field could tell that, despite himself, Maretsky was interested. “But what?”

He shrugged. “There is a confidence to it.”

“What do you mean?”

Maretsky was silent. “It’s a developed fantasy,” he said.

“You mean he’s done similar things before?”

“I mean there is a history leading up to this. You would have a pattern of violence against women. To begin with, beating, sexually abusing . . . the abuse becomes steadily more violent. Then, one day, it gets out of hand and he actually kills a girl. He enjoys it. So now he goes about achieving the same satisfaction with greater confidence. He knows what he wants. The kind of attire he likes, tied up, under control.”

“So there might be a pattern?”

“There is a pattern. One might be able to find it.”

“And now it will accelerate?”

“I would say he has done this before. It will certainly continue now, and it might accelerate.”

“Other girls in Lu’s possession?”

“I don’t know.”

“So we do nothing?”

Maretsky shrugged.

“So you won’t help me?”

“I wish you good luck.”

“Tell me about Lu.”

“What about him?”

“He’s your private obsession.” Field looked at the clippings on the wall.