Stuart Kaminsky - Hard Currency

“What happened to you?” the man said as Rostnikov continued to the door and opened it. “I mean last night.”

“Nothing,” said Rostnikov. “I drank too much.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man, “but there is much you should know about. I told you I would help you.”

They were out on the stone deck in front of the hotel now and the man continued to buzz around them.

“You need a ride? My car is right there, see? Not much, the Packard, but it runs. I’ll take you anywhere.”

“One condition,” said Rostnikov.

“Yes?” asked the little man eagerly.

“You do not speak. Inspector Timofeyeva is suffering a malady from her experiences last night.”

“But,” he said, “she seemed well when Major Sanchez took her back to the hotel. Maybe it was too much vodka.”

“The condition,” Rostnikov said.

“As you wish,” the man said. He looked at Elena with something that might have been concern. “I’ll be silent.”

And he was silent as he drove them to the police station where Major Sanchez could be seen looking out at them from his office window.

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov, holding the door open for Elena Timofeyeva, who looked decidedly pale.

“I’ll wait,” said Rodriguez.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” said Rostnikov. “I’m sure the major will see to it that we are driven back to the hotel.”

“But,” the little man said, moving close to Rostnikov, “there are things I want to show you.”

“Another time, perhaps,” said Rostnikov, walking toward the station.

Though his leg continued to feel better, Rostnikov did not move swiftly, but Elena Timofeyeva was moving even more slowly. Then, decisively, she moved forward ahead of him and held the door open as he joined her.

When they entered Major Sanchez’s office, he greeted them with an offer of coffee, which both Rostnikov and Elena accepted.

Sanchez was wearing a neatly pressed uniform. He smiled, pointed to open seats in front of his desk, and said, “And now, Inspector Rostnikov?”

“We close the case.” The moment Rostnikov spoke a familiar pain shot through his leg.

“Close it? How?” asked Sanchez, looking at the two Russians expectantly.

“The Santería, of course,” said Rostnikov. “Shemenkov and Maria Fernandez made the mistake of offending an important Santería. He had Maria murdered and made it look as if Shemenkov did it. And the woman in prison, Victoria Oliveras, they bribed or threatened her.”

“All very simple,” said Sanchez with a shake of his head. “A word here, a conclusion there, and your Russian is innocent.”

“We have gathered evidence and depositions,” said Rostnikov.

“And you are both satisfied that this is the case? You have enough evidence to clear your countryman?”

“We are satisfied,” said Rostnikov before Elena could answer.

“And you expect us to simply let your Russian free on your statement?” Sanchez asked.

“Inspector Timofeyeva will prepare a report,” Rostnikov said. “The report will be sent to you from Moscow. Evidence at the house of the Carerras, scratches, a ladder, all this should help to convince you.”

Sanchez held up both hands and said, “I am not convinced, but I will need the report. I will also need to reexamine the murder site. It is possible our investigators were a little less than zealous in their efforts because a Russian was accused. I’ll admit, just in this room, of course, that some members of this department might have been a bit too willing to think the worst of a Russian. But those are small possibilities. If your report is confirmed, and I doubt that it will be, Shemenkov will be freed when my superiors are convinced of his innocence. I assume you will now be returning to Moscow.”

“As quickly as possible,” said Rostnikov. “I would prefer to complete my report in Moscow.”

“As you wish. You have been difficult but in many ways I shall miss you.” Sanchez looked at Elena, who looked at Rostnikov.

“You have no more questions?” asked Rostnikov.

“At the moment, none,” said Sanchez. “Should I?”

Rostnikov shrugged.

“Well,” said Sanchez, “we await the report of your investigation and its conclusions.”

Rostnikov grunted.

“If there is anything …” Sanchez began.

“I would like to see Igor Shemenkov before we go,” said Rostnikov.

“Of course,” said Sanchez. He put down his coffee and picked up the phone.

“Shemenkov aquí inmediatamente,” he said, and hung up.

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov. “And if you don’t mind, I would like to see him alone.”

Sanchez rose, bowed his head slightly, and moved to the door.

“Perhaps Inspector Timofeyeva would like to step outside with me and continue our interesting conversation of this morning. I mean last night.”

“No,” said Elena. She glanced at Rostnikov, who was occupied with the darkness of the liquid in his coffee cup.

Sanchez shrugged and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Rostnikov avoided looking at Elena, though he was sure her eyes were now moist. The door opened and Igor Shemenkov lumbered in.

The door closed behind him and he stood there looking at his two fellow Russians. There was hope in his sunken eyes. He had shaved badly; he had cut himself just below the nose.

“We will file a report from Moscow,” said Rostnikov. “The report will provide evidence and reasonable speculation that you are innocent of the murder of Maria Fernandez. Major Sanchez has said that he believes the evidence will not be accepted. We shall see. Meanwhile, you will remain in the custody of the Cuban police.”

“I will be free?” Shemenkov said, looking first at Rostnikov and then at Elena.

“If the Cuban government is convinced by our evidence,” said Rostnikov. “And I believe they have reason to be convinced.”

Shemenkov looked stunned, but a broad smile came to his face. He moved heavily forward with arms open, perhaps to embrace Rostnikov with gratitude, but before Shemenkov could reach them, Rostnikov slapped the Russian twice. As Shemenkov staggered backward, Rostnikov took Elena Timofeyeva by the arm and led her out of the office and toward the street.

“I want that one,” the man said, pointing at Yevgeny Odom.

He was talking to a thin woman with wild prematurely gray hair and the pinched face of one whose suffering is greater than your own. The woman wore a worn but clean white smock and a determined attitude as she tried to guide the old man into a chair across the room.

Yevgeny did not look up from the fat girl from whom he was drawing two vials of blood. The fat girl looked up at him in gratitude.

“They say he doesn’t hurt,” said the old man as he reluctantly sat down in the wooden chair to which the gray-haired woman had guided him.

Once in the chair, the old man dutifully removed his hat and looked up at the woman who was preparing her vial and needle.

“Look,” said the old man, “the girl is smiling.”

“It’s her birthday,” said the pinched-face woman. “Hold out your arm. Make a fist.”

“What has her birthday got to-”

He stopped as the needle went into a bulging vein in his forearm.

“Let’s see. Is it bleeding?” Yevgeny asked, examining the fat girl’s arm as he removed the needle. “No. Go. You are free.”

And the girl wobbled through the open door to her waiting mother in the other room.

Yevgeny stood up and turned to face the old man and the woman who was drawing his blood.

“I’m going,” Yevgeny said. “I’m due at work in twenty minutes.”

The old man grimaced as the needle was withdrawn.