Stuart Kaminsky: Blood and Rubles

“We must save a piece for Anna Timofeyeva,” said Sarah.

Rostnikov had hoped there would be enough to bring a free American pizza to Tkach’s family, but that was clearly not to be. He would have to buy one.

Sarah nodded and touched her husband’s hand. They had invited, even urged, Karpo to join them, but he had refused, as had Zelach and his mother.

They had come very early, before the Americans, French, Germans, and recently wealthy criminals had descended on the popular restaurant, but now the room was starting to fill, and the waiters were looking around for tables.

“I ordered a pizza for Inspector Tkach’s family,” said Hamilton. “Compliments of the United States government.”

“Thank you,” said Rostnikov.

“I talked to my wife and kids this morning,” said Hamilton. “They sounded like they were on another planet.”

“America is another planet,” said Sarah. “I’ve tried to get Porfiry Petrovich to go there, but … it’s too late now. This is our planet.”

The next two pizzas came. The waiter put one on each end of the table. Rostnikov reached over, felt the pain in his leg, and took another slice.

Emil Karpo sat in the chair next to Paulinin’s desk. They were drinking strong coffee that Paulinin had brewed and poured into two cups that had been used for who-knows-what. Paulinin took a sip, wiped his hands on his dirty lab coat, and looked down at a sheet of notes.

“The ballistics people were right for a change,” he said. “The bullets that killed her did not come from the gun in the hands of the dead man with the tattoos. His was state-of-the-art. The one that killed her …”

Karpo sipped his coffee.

“You sure you want me to go on?” asked Paulinin.

Karpo nodded.

“The dolts who did the autopsy didn’t even check the bullets,” Paulinin said. “Sloppy. They were better in the days of the czars. They had some pride. No second weapon was found?”

“No,” said Karpo. “None was found in the hands or near the bodies of any of the dead.”

Paulinin shrugged.

“You took care of …” Karpo began.

“You will have the ashes in a few days,” said Paulinin.

Karpo nodded.

“Would you like to see a double kidney?” Paulinin asked. “I just-”

Karpo shook his head no.

Something bubbled gently in the darkness of the laboratory on the second level below the ground floor. Something creaked. And certainly something smelled. There were many smells.

“When did you last eat, Karpo?” Paulinin asked.

Karpo looked at the little man with some interest. Paulinin was definitely concerned about him.

“I’ll eat later,” said Karpo.

“I have half a chicken, a cabbage, and an almost full bottle of wine in my room,” said Paulinin.

“I need no favors,” Karpo said.

“But I do,” said Paulinin. “I am tired. I am hungry, and yours is the only company I enjoy. Come, we’ll eat chicken and I’ll tell you about the most interesting bodies I have worked on.”

“Who could resist such an offer?” Karpo said.

“You are developing a sense of humor in your depression,” said Paulinin.

It was in the rear of her closet. Irina Smetenova had not opened the bag since she had brought it back to her apartment. The dog had sniffed at the closet door, and Irina remembered the single orange she had placed in the bag. An orange, two potatoes, which were probably growing green little plants by now, and a jar of preserves.

Irina had a weak back, crippled knees, a small pension, and a hungry dog. Her life was an endless round of painful trips to the park with Dolgi and then the trips to the shops to buy what she could. She dealt little with her neighbors, who regarded her with the same suspicion with which she regarded them. Hers was not a good neighborhood, and it was getting worse all the time. Sofia Workovna, who lived on the ground floor, had been broken into and beaten up by two men. Her purse and television had been taken, along with her knives and forks and a few little inexpensive curios the old woman had collected. It was no longer a good neighborhood.

Irina moved to the closet, and Dolgi followed, wagging his tail.

These were troubled times, and there was no one to turn to. Irina’s only child was a mother herself now with a grown daughter off in Estonia. Irina’s sister was long dead. There were only herself and Dolgi.

So, when she had heard the gunshots across the street while heading for the park, she had fallen to her knees and pulled her dog into her arms. She had watched in fascination as the bald, tattooed man fired into the restaurant window. She saw the woman with the red hair jerk and fall forward. She saw the man next to her fire some kind of weapon out the window. She saw the tattooed man jerk back as he was shot, and the car drive off with a screech, its windows smashed by wild shots from the man in the café.

The shooting stopped. People got up. Many hurried away, not wanting to be witnesses. Some moved forward slowly. Irina had crossed the street holding her dog in one arm and her shopping bag in the other.

Irina had knelt next to the tattooed man in the street, who was not yet quite dead. He tried to speak and then closed his eyes, his head dropping to the left. Irina picked up the gun and put it into her shopping bag. Her knees ached as she stood. Dolgi whimpered at the smell of death.

Irina turned to the woman with the red hair, but knew she was dead.

And then the sound of a police car somewhere far off sent the looters flying through the broken windows and door.

Irina had joined the crowd by the time the police arrived-an old woman clutching her dog and her shopping bag.

Now, two days later, she opened her closet and pulled out the shopping bag. The orange was pungent and rotting. The potatoes were soft but still edible, and the gun was still shining and much lighter than one would have expected. She had picked it up without thought and now she held it in fear and some sense of excitement. Dolgi whimpered and ran to the ancient couch.

Irina held it the way she had seen them do on television. It did not feel bad. In fact, it felt very good, very comforting. Her door was sturdy. If robbers tried to break in, they would not beat her as they had Sofia Workovna, nor would they hurt Dolgi and steal her things. She was no longer a helpless old woman with crippled knees. She would sleep with the weapon next to her small bed in the corner. She would sleep less frightened than she had in many, many months.

Emil Karpo returned to his apartment around midnight. Paulinin had become quite drunk and insisted on recounting many of his most difficult cases. He even gave small hints about a father still living, a sister with two or three children, and years clerking behind the counter at the family’s pharmacy in Minsk. Finally he had fallen asleep and Karpo had left. He had drunk nothing alcoholic, nor had he any desire to do so. Then he had walked the three miles to his apartment in the swirling wind and the first real snowfall of winter.

At his door Karpo paused. The hairs were out of place. Someone had entered his apartment. He took his gun from its holster and quickly went to the end of the hall, where he flicked the switch that sent the hallway into darkness. He made his way along the wall to his door, knowing that it would be awkward to insert the key and open the door with his broken finger, but he had to keep the gun. in his right hand and ready.

He opened the door as quietly as he could and entered the one-room apartment in a crouch.

The small light on the desk was on. The room was empty. Karpo locked the door behind him with the interior bolts and moved to the desk. There was a note under the light. Still holding the gun, Karpo picked up the note and read it: “Emil, please excuse the intrusion. Sarah and I thought you should have it.” The note was signed “Porfiry Petrovich.” Karpo put his gun back in the holster and wondered what “it” was. He turned on the remaining lights in the room and immediately saw the painting hanging on the wall across from his bed. It was the only space that was not occupied by Mathilde’s paintings, and now it held one more.