Daria Desombre - The Sin Collector

“Timofeyev. I’m a psychiatrist and sexologist here.”

Andrey shook his hand gingerly and tried to imagine, awkwardly, what kind of work a sexologist must do.

“Sexology,” Timofeyev explained, as if catching the glint of alarm in his eyes, “is not the same thing as gynecology. Or urology.” He smiled. “We work on things above the belt, not below.” He leaned toward Andrey again and added, “The brain, I mean.”

“Huh,” answered Andrey, grateful that the cigarette was providing him an excuse not to fan the flames of this conversation.

“You’re a detective, right?” Andrey nodded, and the sexologist went on. “I saw you walk into the Serpent’s nest.”

“The Serpent?”

“Yeah, that’s our loving nickname for our unloved Tatyana.” He made a grand gesture in the air with his glowing cigarette and quoted Pushkin. “‘And she was called Tatyana!’ She calls herself a doctor, too, which isn’t actually very funny.”

“She doesn’t have a doctorate?” asked Andrey. Now he was curious. Krotova had seemed perfectly suited to the title after her name.

“Oh, she does,” Timofeyev said dismissively. “Maybe she bought it somewhere, or maybe she just plonked her ass down in the library until she learned everything by heart. Psychology isn’t an exact science, if you know what I mean. But, honestly”—he moved his long face even closer to Andrey’s—“she’s just tickled pink that Belov is gone. He was the only person in this whole nuthouse who actually knew anything, hadn’t just memorized some Carl Jung. The only one who actually cared about his patients. Too much, sometimes.” The sexologist snickered.

“What do you mean?” Andrey hurried to ask.

“What else could I mean? It was clear as day. He’s a doctor, a king, and a god, and she’s a patient tortured by her own psyche. And a pretty one, too. It’s risky business, sure, and medical ethics forbids it. But more important, she had a husband. A cop. The kind who, if you gave him a leather jacket and shaved his head, he’d be the perfect thug. That sometimes happens with your kind, sorry to say. And his eyes—well, they weren’t kind, to put it gently. That kind of guy, he’s as likely to stab you as a Young Pioneer is to help an old lady across the street.”

Andrey couldn’t believe his luck. “You happen to know this lady patient’s name?” he asked quietly, afraid of jinxing himself by showing too much eagerness.

“Nope,” said Timofeyev, tossing away his cigarette butt. “But I can look in the files. It was probably two years ago. I saw her getting into his car after a session, and they drove off. Then she canceled the rest of her appointments.”

“Is that why you figure they were having an affair?” asked Andrey, faking disbelief, as Timofeyev opened the door to the clinic.

“Oh man.” The sexologist lifted one long crooked finger into the air. “If you had seen the way he looked at her? And her, too. Believe me, it was obvious.”

The patient’s last name turned out to be Kuznetsova, and Andrey got her address, too, and her phone number, which he called right from Timofeyev’s office. A toneless female voice said hello.

“Anna Kuznetsova? Good afternoon. My name is Yakovlev, and I’m a police detective. I’d like to have a chat with you about Yury Belov. Could we meet? Right now?”

“Certainly,” Anna answered quietly. “Please come. You have my address? The door code is 769.”

“On my way,” Andrey said, and hung up before she could change her mind. By the time he pulled out of the parking lot, he realized why the short conversation had felt so weird. Anna Kuznetsova had seemed neither surprised nor frightened. Very odd for a person receiving an urgent call from a detective.

Innokenty hung up the phone and sank down heavily onto the dark-green leather ottoman in the hallway. That had been Masha’s denim detective, Yakovlev, again. He was driving, and apparently in a serious rush. Yakovlev had told Innokenty that Masha’s stepfather was dead. He had given no details, but Innokenty knew enough to understand that Belov must have been murdered in some hideous medieval manner. And Innokenty knew just as well as Yakovlev did that the death of Masha’s stepfather was no coincidence. The Sin Collector was breathing down Masha’s neck now. The fact that she was still alive might be just an oversight, though that was hard to believe. More likely, it was a vital part of his devious game, part of his obsessive control over events. He was saying that he could take Masha’s life, purely by his own will, any time he chose.

Yakovlev had asked Innokenty to pick up Masha and her mother and bring them to Kenty’s place. “Just for a while,” he specified. Innokenty could hear the fear and exhaustion in his voice. There was a new tone, too, a note of pleading.

“Of course. I’ll go get them right now,” Kenty had agreed. Then he added, “Don’t worry. My apartment is like a bank vault. They’ll be relatively safe here.”

“Relatively, right,” Yakovlev had answered, but he also thanked him sincerely.

“Not a problem,” Innokenty had said automatically, but something nagged at him. Who the hell did the denim detective think he was, thanking Kenty for taking care of Masha Karavay? He had taken care of her for the past fifteen years, without anybody ever asking him to! But he quickly made himself see reason. Masha’s gloomy-looking boss was turning out to be a good guy, and it was natural that he was worried about her. Innokenty ran downstairs to his car and headed for Masha’s house, without even bothering to call first.

When Masha opened the door, Kenty gave a start. She looked thin and unhealthy, her collarbones standing out at the neck of her bathrobe, her elbows too sharp, and her face… Masha’s face was drawn and pinched, with dark circles under her eyes and sunken cheeks. Her hair hung in long, disheveled strands, and even her eyes looked pale, as if all the light had gone out of them. She moved quietly to one side to let Kenty in and led him, her feet dragging, to the kitchen, where she sat down facing the light. She smiled, unhappily.

“Mama’s in the hospital,” she said. “Her heart was giving her trouble. I guess you already know what happened?”

Innokenty nodded and tried to take her hand in his, but she pulled away, then looked down to concentrate on picking at a hangnail. She succeeded, and tore a considerable swath of skin away with it. Masha didn’t even wince. She licked the blood off her finger and grimaced at him again with that same empty smile.

“Masha,” he began, “you shouldn’t be here. It’s too dangerous. Even if you were able to convince yourself that your friend’s death was a coincidence—”

“Her name was Katya,” Masha said.

“Yes,” Innokenty conceded. “But we know that Katya’s death was no accident, and your stepfather was targeted for a reason, too.”

“Right,” Masha agreed. “This is about me, and it’s all my fault.”

“That’s ridiculous! Why would you—”

“No, Kenty! Stop. It’s obvious!” Masha said, her words rushed now as she frantically pulled at another hangnail. “Even Mama said so!”

Innokenty grabbed her hand, but he felt her palm quiver and her fingers wriggle like insects as she tried to break free.

“Your mother said what?”

“Yes, Mama, too! If I hadn’t gotten involved in this Jerusalem thing, nobody would ever have figured it out! Maybe he even would have stopped killing, maybe he would have gotten bored with it. But now he has an audience, he has somebody to play with, you know? I mean, who would go and hide in the woods like an idiot, all alone? But if there are reasonably intelligent people looking for you, it’s different, and I’m closer than anyone else. It’s fun for him to play with me. And there are so many sinners around me. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. He’s saying I’ve been blind! I’m following his trail, but I can’t see what’s right in front of my face!”