“She has promise,” he said. “With more training, she may be a winning show dog.” He stuck his hand out. “I am Vaja. You are Nikki Heat, yes?”
Because it was such a warm spring day, he invited them to sit on the gallery that wrapped around the back of the house. They declined his pitcher of iced tea and settled into teak rocking chairs while he perched up on the rail to face them. His dangling feet not only made Nikoladze appear shorter in spite of his elevation, but boylike instead of the fifty Heat made him to be.
“Up in town at the institute they told us to find you here,” began Nikki. “You’re taking a personal leave?”
“A brief one, yes. I’m mourning the loss of one of my dogs. Fred would have been the first Georgian Shepherd to win Best in Show at Westminster, I believe.”
“I’m sorry,” said Heat and Rook, nearly in unison.
He made a pained smile and said, “Even show dogs get sick. They are only human, yes?” Nikki observed that his Georgian accent grew thicker in sadness.
Rook must have had the same thought and said, “So you’re from Georgia. Spent some mighty good times in Tbilisi on an assignment not long ago.”
“Ah, yes, I enjoyed your article very much, Mr. Rook. Insightful. But the times were not so good when I defected. We were still under the boot of Moscow.”
“That was when?” asked Detective Heat. The mention of defecting from a Russian satellite and its potential clandestine implications snagged her interest.
“1989. I was twenty-eight and, not to be boastful, one of the leading biochemists in the Soviet Union. Such as it was then. You know, yes, that there is much bad blood between Georgian people and Russians?”
“Yes,” said Rook. “Lots of actual blood.”
“Mostly Georgian. And Moscow, they wanted my talent put to use for war, so it was double insult. I was young, and no family to worry about, so I left for freedom, you see. Soon, I was fortunate to get fellowship at the Spokes Institute here.”
“And just what is the Spokes Institute?” she asked.
“You call it think tank, I guess. Although, many days, there is more talking than thinking.” He chuckled. “But our mission is policy study to demilitarize science. So is good fit for someone like me. Plus the fellowship grant gives me time to follow my passion for breeding the next prize-winning show dog.” He laughed again, then fell off into brief melancholy, no doubt at the memory of Fred.
Heat had questions to ask concerning his defection but used this lull to transition to her business. She asked Vaja if he’d been following the murder cases in the news, and he confessed he had been preoccupied lately with losing his poor dog. But Nikoladze had heard of the suitcase murder because of its spectacular nature. Heat told him, in addition to Nicole Bernardin’s killing, she was also investigating her mother’s. Then she asked the same basic questions she had that morning at the brewery about the events surrounding Cynthia Heat’s tutoring in his home back in 1999: her mother’s state of mind; her sense of agitation; whether she was being followed or bothered; if there were things upset or missing in the house.
Vaja said, “I would much like to help you with your questions, but unfortunately, I don’t have enough information to share. You see, your mother only came here to tutor twice.”
“Your child gave up?” asked Rook.
The scientist looked down at him from his perch on the railing with amusement. “My child? I assure you that would be most unlikely.”
Nikki asked, “Who, then?”
“My protege.”
“A protege from the institute?”
“No.” Nikoladze hesitated but continued. “He was someone I met at a dog show in Florida. He also came from Tbilisi.” Heat sensed his discomfort at the subject and understood why, but knowing that often the host household was not the target for her mother to spy on but could be the link to an acquaintance who was, she started troweling away layers.
“He showed dogs, as well?”
Vaja lowered his eyes and said, “No, he was groomer’s assistant.” Then, as if he’d decided to surrender, he let it out. “We had much in common. He and I hit it off, so I invited him to come here to learn from me about breeding and training the dogs. I also got him the piano lessons, but he was not serious enough.”
Rook said, “The piano’s not for everyone.”
“Serious enough about me.”
Nikki took out her notepad. “May I ask the name of this protege?”
With a sigh, Vaja said, “This must be my time for emotional pain, old and new.” Nikki thought, You’re preaching to the choir on that one, pal. She uncapped her pen to prompt him. “His name is Mamuka. Mamuka Leonidze.” Mindful of the language difference, he spelled out the name for her.
“Do you know where Mamuka is now?” she asked.
“Ten years ago he left for Canada to join Cirque du Soleil as an acrobat. After that, I do not know.” Then he added, “If you find him, tell me, I’m curious.”
Vaja escorted them to their car, which gave Heat a chance to walk the conversation back to the topic of his defection. “Do you ever have contact with representatives of foreign governments?”
“All the time, of course. The Spokes Institute is a global think tank.”
“I mean outside your policy work. Any government contact?”
“Only to report my address as a legal alien.”
She and Rook hadn’t conferred, but he was right there with her and asked, “What about spies? Secret police?”
“Not since I left Georgia.” But then he reconsidered. “Well, they did come to me a little bit after I first got here, but by the mid-nineties, after Shevardnadze was ousted, they started to leave me alone.”
“Who?” asked Nikki.
“You want names? This is just like back in Tbilisi but no concrete room.”
Rook said, “I’ll give you one, then. Anatoly Kije, you know of him?”
“You mean the Soul Crusher? Everyone knew of him back then. But since I left? No.”
“One more name,” said Heat. “Tyler Wynn.”
“No, afraid I don’t know that one.”
The low rumble of a diesel shuddered the air as the Amtrak Adirondack passed a quarter mile away along the banks of the Hudson, heading up to Albany. Heat slid into the front seat and asked Vaja to call her if anyone else contacted him about this case. He nodded and said something, but she couldn’t hear it because the train horn blasted and he got drowned out by all the yelps and howls answering it from within the dog kennel. The soundless movement of his mouth felt to her like the perfect image for the empty motion of pursuing these leads.
Back on the road, Rook expressed his frustration another way. “Seems like our sexy insurance investigator’s list is a lot like he is. Sizzle without the steak. Or, more to the point, tan without the sun. Did you see those goggle marks?”
“Come on, Rook, it’s not Joe Flynn’s fault these didn’t pan out yet.”
“Did you say ‘yet’?” He saw her tenacious look and said, “Got it.”
She gave it some gas and resolved to practice what she preached to her squad. When you ground out, you don’t quit. You go back. Dig harder. Do the work. After putting in some more study of these people and reviewing their interviews, Heat had a feeling she’d be seeing some of them again.
Nikki’s cell phone buzzed with a text when she passed through the precinct lobby with Rook. “Finally,” she said. “A message from Carter Damon.”
“What’s it say?”
“Nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s a partial. He must have lost service or hit send by mistake.” She held the screen out to him. All it said was “I am” and the rest was blank.
“Hm, ‘I am…’ Let me guess-’the walrus’? ‘Such an asshole for not calling you back’?” The duty sergeant zapped the security lock and Rook pushed the door open to let her go first.
Heat was texting back to Damon, telling him to call, when Detective Raley snagged her as she came into the bull pen. “I’ve got something I want to show you before Irons and his maiden came back.” She looked past his shoulder and could see a financial statement up on his monitor. Sensitive, following her hasty exit earlier, Raley
