Stuart Kaminsky - The Dog Who Bit a Policeman

“I was genuinely angry, Emil,” said Rostnikov. “I have a family crisis. Elena Timofeyeva has been injured and I am wearing a jacket and pants that would befit a clown across the street. I have a bad feeling. I was angry, but perhaps not as angry as I appeared.”

A bag containing the uneaten food and a second tomato sandwich appeared in front of Rostnikov. On the plate next to it was a firm peach.

“You remembered,” said Rostnikov.

“I remembered your love of peaches,” Cashierovsky said.

“Enjoy.”

“He’s back,” Ivan Pleshkov said to Iosef over the phone.

“Does your father know you are calling me?” asked Iosef, sitting at the desk in his cubicle. He had been about to go out the door and head for the home and office of Leon the doctor. Porfiry Petrovich had left a message for his son telling him where Elena was, that she had been injured but that she was fine.

Iosef had wanted to see for himself, to be with her, but the phone had rung and Yevgeny Pleshkov’s son was on the line.

“Is he planning to leave?”

“I don’t think so,” said the son. “He looks tired. He looks like cat vomit.”

“Has he said anything to you or your mother about where he has been, what he has done?”

“He doesn’t have to,” said Ivan. “He’s been whoring, drinking, gambling, behaving like a fool. The great potential leader of the people is a buffoon, but what is new about that?”

“Can you keep him there?” asked Iosef.

“I can’t keep him anywhere,” said Ivan. “He goes where he wishes, does what he pleases, helps the masses and abuses individuals. But from the look of him he is at least content to be home for the immediate future. My mother has asked no questions. She will, though, and he will give her stupid lies. She will pretend to believe them. It is over. He is back till next time. Good-bye.”

Ivan hung up the phone and so did Iosef.

The proper thing to do at this point was to tell everything to the chief inspector, his father, but Porfiry Petrovich was out somewhere with Karpo and it was possible that Yevgeny Pleshkov might run off again. He either had to act on his own or talk to Director Yaklovev, which he preferred not to do. But he had little choice.

Instead of calling, he walked to the director’s office and asked if the Yak was in. The dwarfish Pankov began to sweat almost immediately. He had been given a specific list by Director Yaklovev. Except in an emergency, no one else was to be admitted to his office.

Porfiry Petrovich was on the list. No other member of the Office of Special Investigation was.

“Is this an emergency?” asked Pankov, looking at the director’s office door.

“It is,” said Iosef. “And we are wasting time.”

“What is the emergency?”

“Something for the ears of the director only.”

“I can ask him,” Pankov almost pleaded. “But I must have some idea. .”

“Tell him it is about Yevgeny Pleshkov,” said Iosef. “Tell him it is urgent. Tell him. .”

The director’s door opened and Yaklovev, spire-straight, said,

“Come in, Rostnikov.”

Oh, by my mother’s saints, thought Pankov, he can hear everything that is said out here. He has wired my space.

This was terrifying news to the little man, who now searched his memory, frantically wondering, fearing, that he had said something in the last months, something that would eventually mean his ruin.

I should have known, Pankov thought. I should have suspected.

Oh, god. He doesn’t care if I know. He is planning to replace me, to drive me into a breakdown and replace me.

The door closed behind the two men.

Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov had many things on his mind when he returned to his office. He wanted the day to be over so he could talk to and be with Sarah. He wanted to bring in the killer of the Chechins and Tatars. He wanted quite a few things, but he did not want to find Lydia Tkach sitting in front of his desk with her arms folded when he returned from his meeting with Shatalov and Chenko.

He sat behind his desk, put his hands flat in front of him, and looked at the thin woman attentively. That she was furious was obvious. Sasha’s mother did not hide her opinions or feelings. And her primary feelings were reserved for her only son.

“Elena Timofeyeva was attacked by a wild tiger,” she said.

“A tiger?” asked Rostnikov. “Contrary to rumors you may have heard, I can assure you, Lydia, that there are no packs of wild tigers roaming the streets of Moscow. There are animals far more dangerous, but not tigers. It was a dog.”

“Anna Timofeyeva said it was a tiger.”

Rostnikov seriously doubted this, since Lydia was shouting and not wearing her hearing aid. Actually, she almost never wore the hearing aid, which made conversation with her very public.

“A dog,” said Rostnikov.

“Then a dog,” Lydia conceded with exasperation. “Anna Timofeyeva says she will probably die.”

“Elena Timofeyeva is probably home by now,” said Rostnikov, trying hard to keep from looking at his watch. “She has some injuries but she is fine.”

“We shall see,” said Lydia with suspicion. “She was working with my Sasha, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Then he may be attacked by some animal, may be killed,” she said, challenging the chief inspector.

Sasha was certainly in danger from animals with guns, but a second dog attack was unlikely.

“I think he is in relatively little danger,” Rostnikov said, reaching under the desk to try to adjust his leg through the trousers of Leon’s dead father-in-law.

“Relatively?” Lydia shouted. “Relatively? There shouldn’t be any relatively for Sasha. There should be no danger.”

“He is a police officer,” said Rostnikov patiently. “There is always some danger when one is a police officer.”

“Not if one sits behind a desk,” Lydia said, leaning forward with a cunning smile.

“He does not want to sit behind a desk. I don’t know if I could get him moved behind a desk even if he wanted to. We have had this conversation many times, Lydia Tkach.”

“And we will have it many more times till you do something to protect my Sasha.”

There was a knock at the door of his office. Rostnikov called,

“Come in.”

Pankov entered with a very false smile and a steaming mug.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you might like some tea.”

“That would be nice,” said Rostnikov.

“Can I bring some for the lady?” Pankov asked, placing the tea before Rostnikov.

“What?” said Lydia, looking at the little man as if he was an intrusive insect.

“Tea,” Rostnikov said loudly.

“No.”

“This is Sasha Tkach’s mother. This is Pankov, the director’s secretary,” said Rostnikov.

The tea was hot and sweet, a strong tea. It was clear that Pankov wanted something. This was the first time the little man had been in his office, and Porfiry Petrovich was confident that Pankov had never been in the room across the hall with its cubicles for the other inspectors.

“I would like to speak to you, Chief Inspector,” Pankov said, trying to smile apologetically.

“I’ll come down to your office when we are finished.”

“No,” Pankov shouted loud enough for Lydia to hear him clearly and look up at him. “No. I will come back. Don’t come to my office.”

Pankov left quickly.

“Strange man,” said Lydia, looking at the door. “He could have offered me some tea.”

“He did,” said Rostnikov, but her back was turned and she clearly did not hear him.

Then she turned.

“I cannot tell Sasha Tkach what to do,” said Rostnikov, wrapping his thick fingers around the hot mug. Thunder grumbled somewhere far away. “He is a grown man.”