Martin Smith - Tatiana

Victor turned over another card to another familiar face. Aza Baron, formerly Baranovsky, a broker whose clients had enjoyed phenomenal returns until Tatiana Petrovna exposed his pyramid scheme. “Baron is in Israel fighting extradition.”

He turned over the third card.

“Tomsky. The big fish himself,” Arkady said.

“Himself.”

Kazimir Tomsky, deputy minister of defense. He had barely got his fingers in the pot when a Russian freighter limped into Malta. Its cargo had shifted in a storm and had to be reloaded. In the process, a dockside crane toppled and dropped crates labeled “Domestic Appliances.” What spilled out, however, were rocket-propelled grenades. Everyone knew that the arms had been illegally sold by men high and low in the Defense Ministry. Tatiana named them.

Tomsky spent time in prison. He had been released ten days before Tatiana Petrovna was killed.

“Definitely a candidate,” Arkady said.

“Except he went right to Brighton Beach to live with his mother. Too bad, he made a lovely candidate.”

“Who’s left?”

“The Shagelmans.”

“Husband and wife.”

Victor said, “I hear she’s a terrific cook, if you don’t mind picking fingers out of the stew. A sweet old lady who wants to transform Tatiana’s neighborhood into a shopping mall and spa. Between one court and another, Tatiana was costing the project a fortune in bribes, loans and lawyers. She really knows the law. The Shagelmans want to raze and clear the site before winter sets in, whatever that takes. For them, it’s a business decision, nothing personal.”

“Then there’s the joker.” A blank card popped up on Victor’s fingertips.

“Who is that?”

“I don’t know. Someone she opened her door to. A trusted friend.”

“What about Grisha? She did a piece on him a year ago that about took his hide off.”

“Grisha was dead already.”

“Don’t you find it interesting that they died within a day of each other? That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Coincidence is relative. When I go to a bar, it’s fate. If you’re there too, that’s coincidence.” Victor went back to his cards. “It just gets better. There’s Ape Beledon and Abdul, the Chechen superstar. I’ll nose around.”

“Give me a day and we’ll do it together.”

“As in, when I’m sober? Give me a little trust.”

“All the faith in the world.”

As for himself, Arkady knew he should quit the prosecutor’s office. He should have years ago, but there was always a reason to stay and a semblance of control, as if a man falling with an anvil in his hands could be said to be in control.

A dent in the ribs changed a person’s perspective. A walk down the street became fraught with potential disaster. A boy on a skateboard was a runaway bull. Driving the Niva’s manual shift demanded a stream of obscenities. His cell phone rang. Dr. Korsakova, a brain surgeon of his acquaintance. Another opinion he didn’t need. Arkady didn’t answer.

Tatiana’s building and the grounds around it seemed even more empty than before, no one about but old women who tipped from side to side as they dragged their shopping carts behind. A true dead end.

Arkady mashed all the buzzers on the call box before a girl carrying a poncho came to the front door. She couldn’t have been more than twenty, pretty in a street-urchin fashion, with a crust of mascara around the eyes and bleached hair as fine as chick’s fluff.

She said, “Another investigator? If you’re here about Tatiana, you’re a week too late. If you’re here about the building, turn the power back on.”

“I’m not here about the building.”

The girl explained that developers had been trying to get rid of Tatiana Petrovna for months. “They turned off the elevator and heat. Look at this lobby. Nothing but trash and dirty words. Mailboxes ripped open. Disgusting. At least the cats keep the rats down.”

“You mean there’s no one else in the building?”

“No, now that Tatiana is gone.”

“No staff?”

“No.”

“What floor are you on?”

“The sixth, the top. Right across from her.”

What else? Arkady thought.

“Your name is. .?”

“Svetlana.”

“You’re not working today?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out.”

The stairs were tagged with suggestions of what people could do to themselves and declarations in red paint, “Spartak Rules!” and “Dynamo Sucks!” As he followed Svetlana he became aware that she was putting more sway into her steps than was absolutely necessary. You’re stirring a cold pot, he thought. Thank you for trying.

“So it was the two of you against the world.” As if Tatiana needed more enemies, he thought. The rubble outside could be cleared for a megamall or health club for members only. If Svetlana could be believed, she and Tatiana must have been a maddening roadblock. “Were you here when she died?”

“The night she went out the window? I heard her come in around midnight. That wasn’t unusual, she often worked late. She was famous, you know. She didn’t have to live here. I asked her once, and she said she liked to mess with the system.”

Arkady’s ribs fought every step and he was sweating by the third floor.

“You okay?” Svetlana looked back.

“Perfect. Did you talk to her that night?”

“No, but I heard her come in.”

“Alone?”

“I can’t say for sure, I could only hear her in the hallway.”

“And no one came after?”

“No.”

“You were friends.”

“Nobody would believe it, would they, her being who she was and all. She always brought milk for my cats. All she had to do was open her door and they’d start yowling.”

“Were you alone?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How did you two meet?” Arkady asked. “At the fish market? On a tenants’ committee?”

“Not quite. At a drop.”

A “drop” was where men picked up prostitutes. It could be a traffic overpass, a pedestrian underpass, a children’s playground.

“I had a fight with a guy and I wasn’t in good shape. Tatiana saw me and took me in.”

“Like that?”

“Like that. She owned two apartments and she set me up here across from hers.”

“To protect you?”

“I dunno.”

“When was the last time you talked to her?”

“The day of the accident, a week ago.”

“How did she seem? Happy, normal, depressed?”

“Down.” The cats sensed something was wrong. They mewed the whole day. “Well, we’re here.”

He leaned against the wall and calculated how long it would take to roll down to the bottom. A police seal was plastered across the door and frame, and the door was locked. There were no signs of forced entry.

“So the police had a key?”

“I suppose. She always kept her door locked.”

“Where would they get a key?”

“Why are you asking all these questions? Everyone says it was suicide.”

“Can we talk in your apartment?”

Svetlana balked. “I dunno. Is this going to get me into trouble? Tatiana told me my rights. I don’t have to let anybody in.”

Arkady sneezed.

“How many cats?” he asked.

“Six. Do you like cats? I always feel they’re a good judge of character. You have to let them come to you.”

“Oh, they come.”

In Arkady’s experience, cats knew instantly who was allergic and gravitated to them. “You know, I’m like most people. Sometimes I forget my key or I can’t find it, so I give a copy to a neighbor. Now, you’re the only one here. You were doing Tatiana a favor.”

No response.

“The police report said that a neighbor heard screaming. That was you, right?” He gave her time to answer before he added, “Did the screaming start inside or outside on the balcony?”