Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

His primary rival was a younger, likeable man with almost white hair. The younger man named Felix Borotomkin looked like the photographs of Arnold Schwarzenegger on the covers of CDs of music from his movies. Felix Borotomkin worked out for several hours everyday. Since he worked in a private gym, this was not a problem for him. It was a problem for Porfiry Petrovich.

Sarah wondered if her husband might be dreaming of the competition, going over each move. For Rostnikov, the excitement was in the struggle more than in the winning, though he dearly enjoyed his victories.

Rostnikov slept on his back, no pillow, no cover except in the coldest of weather. His ritual nightwear was a clean pair of exercise shorts and the largest T-shirt he could find in his drawer.

Tonight he was wearing a black one with the words THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE in white letters.

Leon had told Sarah to come when Rostnikov went to work in the morning, that he had to talk to her.

She had gone to him about her headaches, which were increasing in pain and frequency. He had given her medication. When the headaches continued, he had called his cousin in for an examination. Now, three days after the tests, he wanted to see her. It couldn’t be good news.

Sarah would have gotten up and read a book, but there was really nowhere she could turn on a light. Any light and most sounds immediately awakened Rostnikov, though he had no trouble getting back to sleep instantly when he was sure no problem existed that he had to help deal with. Oddly enough, he did not awaken if Sarah reached over to touch him, which she now did.

She was certain now that the news would be bad. It was best if she got some sleep, was rested when she had to cope with the news.

It would be better but it would be impossible.

Her husband’s missing leg was not a problem for Sarah. She had been relieved when it had been amputated. It had been a less-than-handsome sight, and Rostnikov frequently had pain from it while he slept. Now, the sounds of pain were gone, replaced by these mournful grunts.

Sarah had lived for half a century. In that lifetime, she had never been unfaithful to her husband and she was sure he had been faithful to her. Sarah, with her red hair, smooth complexion, white skin, and ample body, had experienced many overtures from co-workers, men in cafes, customers, strangers in odd places. She had been tempted a few times, but the temptations had been slight and passing. She lay wondering if she had missed something. She knew, however, that she would never go beyond that slight temptation.

She closed her eyes and tried the relaxation techniques, the breathing, the visualization she had learned before her last surgery and had practiced till her recovery seemed complete. The techniques helped a bit and she needed them now to control her headache and to try to sleep.

She closed her eyes, imagined the full moon, and tried to let her consciousness go in full concentration on the glowing ball where men had walked and would walk again. No, she told herself, it is just a glowing ball that I must think of and watch while words and thoughts stop. She was just beginning to have some success when she fell asleep.

Anna Timofeyeva, her cat, Baku, in her lap, sat by her window.

A table with folding legs was before her, the light from a lamp il-luminating the pieces of the half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the table.

Jigsaw puzzles had proved to be a comforting meditation for the former procurator. A few years earlier she considered such things a waste of time that could have been productive, and she silently scorned pastimes that did not exercise one’s mind, vocabulary, or dexterity. Now, however, she could be so relaxed by the process, so engaged in fitting the small pieces together that when Lydia Tkach came to complain, she could almost block out her piercing voice and stories of hardship and woe. Lydia didn’t mind the puzzle as long as Anna said something sympathetic from time to time.

Each small piece attached to another was a tiny moment of satisfaction to Anna. The puzzle before her had a thousand pieces and would, when it was finished, present a picture crackled by the hundreds of edges comfortably fitting together. From the cover of the box she knew that she was working toward the completion of a Swiss chalet in the winter, snow-covered mountains in the background with blue sky and white billowy clouds. In the foreground would be two children playing on a sled. The chalet would, as it did in the picture on the box, look like it was made of fragile white-and-brown chocolate.

Elena had not been home for three days. Anna knew why and had given her niece some ideas of how she might handle the undercover assignment. Elena had listened attentively, nodding her head, absorbing. Elena was smart, a good investigator.

Her niece’s relationship with Iosef Rostnikov was welcome to Anna, though she would not say so even if asked. She would not and could not exert any influence on Elena on such an issue. It would happen or it would not.

Anna petted Baku, who purred, a purr that was more a vibration than a sound. An elusive piece was found, a section of one of the chalet windows with a shutter. Without being aware of it, Anna smiled with pleasure.

Though she said and showed no reaction to her niece when Elena’s current assignment had come, Anna was worried. She told Lydia nothing about the nature of what Lydia’s son, Sasha, and Elena were doing. Lydia was already so obsessed with her son’s safety that such a revelation would have resulted in mock hysteria, if not the real thing.

Moscow was more dangerous now than it had ever been, and the most dangerous part for a police officer was probably the gangs.

Life was without value. Violence simply took place and was forgotten. Sasha and Elena were attempting to destroy the operation of one such gang, or Mafia, as they liked to call themselves now.

The Ministry of the Interior, which was supposed to be responsible for gang activity, was completely overcome by the size of the problem. What Elena and Sasha were doing was worth doing, but it would probably accomplish little.

Anna examined her work of the evening with satisfaction, satisfaction that it was coming along well, satisfaction that there was still more than half the puzzle to complete, two nights’ work. Anna seldom worked on the puzzle during the day. She watched the world in the concrete courtyard outside her window, took her pre-scribed walks, listened to music, read history books and occasional novels. Lately, she had been taking note of and notes on a young mother who was in the courtyard each day with her small child.

Anna found the young woman very interesting.

It was late.

Lydia Tkach had knocked insistently and Anna had admitted her, perhaps feeling a slight touch of loneliness that she did not want to admit to herself. Lydia had entered wearing a heavy blue man’s robe at least a size too large for her. Anna had returned to her chair and puzzle, and Lydia had closed the door and moved to sit across from her.

“Have you heard from Elena?” asked Lydia.

“No. I didn’t expect to.”

“She could be dead,” said Lydia.

“Thank you for coming late in the night to cheer up a woman with a heart condition,” said Anna, not looking up from her puzzle.

“Are you being sarcastic, Anna Timofeyeva?”

“Yes, Lydia Tkach.”

“I did not think such sarcasm was in you.”

“I have, since my retirement, nurtured and developed it with great care. Soon I will be able to reduce all but the most oblivious or determined-and that includes you-to frustration and departure.”

“More sarcasm. You play games with words and pieces of cardboard and I am sick, sick with fear about my only son,” said Lydia, pressing her fists into her frail chest.