Stuart Kaminsky - Blood and Rubles

He read, alone at first. Then Elena Timofeyeva returned and passed his office on the way to hers. She had a little bottle in her hand. He looked up as she paused.

“May I?” he asked, nodding at her hand.

“Yes,” she said, handing the bottle to him. “I’m very sorry about Mathilde. My aunt asked me to send her sympathy, and if you are willing to tolerate our cooking, we would like to invite you for dinner on a day-”

“Where did you get this?” he interrupted.

“The bottle? From Natalya Dokorova.”

Karpo continued to examine the bottle.

“What did she tell you about it?”

“Nothing,” said Elena. “The perfume is a small gift for my trying to help her. Would you like the bottle?”

“No,” he said, handing it back to her. “May I suggest that you take very good care of that bottle.”

Elena took the bottle back. She looked at Karpo’s face for a moment, then looked carefully at the bottle for the first time.

“You mean …?”

“I mean it is something you should take care of,” he said.

Elena was suddenly afraid that she would drop the little bottle. She tucked it deeply into her pocket.

“Thank you,” she said.

For a moment Elena considered leaving, but she had the feeling that Karpo had something more to say.

“How knowledgeable are you about computers?”

“I’ve had two courses on their use,” she answered, wondering where this was leading. “I would say that I am reasonably knowledgeable.”

Karpo pointed to the shining little metal circle on his empty desk. Elena had barely noticed it before.

“Can you put this on a computer so that I can read it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I would prefer that only I see the contents,” he said.

“Of course.”

Karpo handed her the circle and said, “How long?”

“If I can find what I need, you should have a readable disk in less than an hour. However, the information on the disk may be locked. If you like, I can check. There are things I can do to open it, but I would have to look at the information at least minimally to do this.”

Karpo nodded and said, “One hour.”

“Approximately,” she said, feeling the bottle in her pocket.

“Thank you,” he said. “Dinner with you and Anna Timofeyeva would be welcome.”

Elena nodded and smiled. Her heart was beating quickly, and she wondered what she should do with the bottle, whether or not to tell her aunt, whether it was possible to get it appraised without having it stolen, whether it was her duty to turn it in to her superiors. At the moment she wasn’t the slightest bit curious about what might be on Karpo’s disk.

When Rostnikov finished turning his prisoners over to the district station and telling them the charges, he gave the solemn, overweight major in charge the address where he could find two bodies.

“Not in my district,” the major said.

“You have my authority, direct from Petrovka, direct from the Office of Special Investigation, direct from Colonel Snitkonoy, to go to the apartment, examine the scene, and take care of the bodies. If you prefer, you may call the head of that district and have him check the apartment. As mad as it seems,” Rostnikov said wearily, “you might consider working together.”

The major nodded, making it clear that “working together” with another district would be out of the question. The major, Rostnikov decided, would risk the enmity of the director of the district where the apartment was located and take on the investigation himself. Scoring points with Petrovka and the Wolfhound’s department would be worth a bit of additional tension between the districts.

From the district station Rostnikov then made a call to the cousin of his wife. Sarah’s cousin was a surgeon, and they were close. With some difficulty Rostnikov reached the cousin and asked him for the name of a good psychologist. The cousin came up with two names of people who were trying to make the practice of therapy acceptable in the new democratic Russia. Rostnikov tracked down one of the therapists and told him about Porvinovich.

“I suggest you go there immediately,” said Rostnikov, giving the man the address after telling him the story.

“It will be difficult to go now,” the man said.

“Porvinovich is a wealthy man,” said Rostnikov.

“I am on my way,” the man said.

Rostnikov then called Alexei Porvinovich’s apartment. The phone rang twenty-two times before Porvinovich picked it up without speaking. Rostnikov said that someone was on the way to help him.

“I’ll take care of the situation with the two dead men,” he said. “The condition is that you talk to the person who is coming to see you.”

No answer.

“I need an answer now,” said Rostnikov.

“Da,” Porvinovich said, and hung up the phone.

Rostnikov called the hospital and discovered from a surly nurse that Sasha Tkach was now sleeping and that, considering his injuries, he was recovering amazingly well.

That was it. It was getting late, and his leg was telling him to get home, get something to eat, and go to bed. He would do his full weight workout when he woke up. Rostnikov put a little pressure on the major, who assigned one of the district police cars to drive the chief inspector home. The driver was not a talker, for which Rostnikov was truly grateful.

The six flights up the stairs of his apartment building on Krasikov Street were especially difficult this night. He was supposed to make the leg work, to walk as much as he could, to climb stairs. Tonight his leg, like a suddenly petulant child, refused to cooperate. By the time Rostnikov reached his door, jacket and hat over his arms, he was exhausted. He inserted the key, went in, and found himself facing a quartet of females-the two little girls, who, he thought, should have been in school by now until he realized that school was over; Sarah, who looked particularly relieved to see him; and Lydia Tkach, aflame with rage.

“Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov,” Lydia shouted, pointing a finger at him. “I denounce you.”

Over the years he had known her, Rostnikov had noted that she shouted more and more as she grew deafer. One was then required to respond in a shout. But Lydia Tkach refused to acknowledge her hearing loss.

“I stand denounced,” Rostnikov said, wearily hanging his coat on the rack near the door.

“My son, my only child,” Lydia said, advancing on Rostnikov. “He is in a hospital, fighting for his life.”

“I just talked to the hospital. He is doing fine.”

“Fine?” Lydia shouted. She turned to Sarah and repeated her questioning indictment. “‘Fine,’ he says. Head broken. All beaten up. He could have been killed.”

Rostnikov took her hand. She pulled it away.

“Porfiry,” Sarah said. “I’ll heat you something.”

“Girls,” said Rostnikov. “Go into the other room and pretend you are doing homework. You can listen from there.”

The girls moved to him for a hug. He picked each girl up, gave her an enormous hug, and put her down. The girls scurried off to the bedroom. He sat down at the table where a half loaf of bread lay next to his plate. Sarah put her hands on his shoulders and massaged gently after he sat. Lydia took the seat across from him. Rostnikov cut a slice of bread and began to eat.

“We talked,” Lydia said. “You promised. Do you remember?”

“We talked,” Rostnikov said, “but I could not make the promise you asked of me. How can I promise that a policeman will not be hurt while performing his duty?”

“You said,” Lydia continued, “that you would talk to him about quitting, about finding other work. There are many opportunities now for people with Sasha’s talent.”