Caprisi folded it and put it into his pocket. “So if she was Lu’s girl, she wasn’t sleeping around. I mean—”
“Not unless he instructed her to.”
“Unless he gave her to someone?”
“Yes.”
“And did he?”
“I believe so. I don’t know who, but I never saw her so happy.”
Caprisi leaned back in his chair again, looking around the room. Field thought the woman probably knew more than she was letting on.
“How was her . . . mood . . . since she moved into Lu’s apartment?” Caprisi asked. “Three months ago, you say?”
“She still came, still danced, but there was something different.”
“To do with Lu, or this new man?”
“I do not know, but she talked of escape more often, with more conviction and . . . a sense of confidence. I think she felt she’d found some . . . some route to a new beginning, to whatever it was she sought. One of the last things she said to me, the day before yesterday, was that she had written to her sister and asked her to come to Shanghai.”
“What’s the relevance of that?”
“She would never have wanted her sister to know about her life here. It could only have been because she was planning that they both leave.”
“Did she have any close friends—a boyfriend, perhaps? Outside of these . . . business arrangements.”
“Sergei, yes.”
“Sergei?”
“He plays in the band here.”
Caprisi looked at his notepad. “He didn’t mind . . . didn’t object to what Lena was up to?”
“He understood.”
“Understanding doesn’t mean forgiving,” Caprisi said, leaning forward. “There cannot be many men who could tolerate the idea of their girl selling herself.”
“I’m not sure that was the basis of their relationship. I think it was more . . . fraternal.” Mrs. Orlov looked down, crossing her hands on her lap. “Anyway, if you’re thinking of him as a suspect, I think I can save you the time. He was here all night.”
“From when until when?” Caprisi asked.
“From around seven until about six in the morning.”
“Onstage all the time?”
“Yes, or sitting in the band’s table to the side of the stage.”
“Where would we find him?”
The woman turned to her wooden desk and rifled through the papers until she found a small black leather book, which she opened. She put on her glasses and wrote the name and address in a smooth, flowing hand. She turned and handed the piece of paper to Field, holding it between two long fingers, looking at him through hooded eyes. “Sergei Stanislevich. He lives in Little Russia, on Avenue Joffre.”
Field thought she was much older than he’d first guessed.
“Good luck, gentlemen.”
They both stood. Caprisi thanked her and they walked down the stairs to the ballroom. As they reached it, Field muttered that he’d forgotten something and darted back before Caprisi had a chance to ask him what.
The woman had not moved and did not seem surprised to see him. He was a little breathless from the heat and the sudden exertion. “Natasha Medvedev. They were friends. What are her circumstances?”
The woman stared at him, as if instantly divining his purpose and motivation, though he wasn’t sure he understood these himself.
“Her circumstances?”
“Yes, she lives opposite Lena. Her flat is also owned by—”
“Her circumstances are the most . . . Of all the girls here, Natasha’s are the most impaired,” she said, half in sorrow, it seemed to him, and half in warning.
Field heard Caprisi call up from below.
“What do you mean impaired?” Field asked.
She shook her head. “Your friend is calling you.”
Field turned around and came to the top of the stairs. “Dropped my pen,” he said, but Caprisi’s look told him he knew differently.
Twelve
