David Duffy - Last to Fold

He came across the big carpet without stopping at the desk or looking toward the computer. His shoulders slumped forward, and his legs moved without purpose, as if they were directing themselves, unsure of where their owner wanted to go. I stood, and as he grew close, he raised his eyes to meet mine.

“Good morning, Mr. Vlost. It seems you were in an accident of some kind.”

“That’s one way of putting it. I look worse than I feel.” Not true, but it sounded good.

He nodded. “Do you have news of Eva?”

“I actually came to see your wife.”

He nodded. “Hicks told me. She’s… she’s not well. The accumulated stress—my difficulties, Eva—it’s taking a toll.”

“Is she here?”

“She’s resting. She… she had a bad night.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to wake her.”

“Why? What for?”

“I need to talk to her.”

“I hardly think—”

“She can talk to me or talk to the cops. The topic is murder. She despises me, but I’m still likely to be more understanding than they are.”

He was tough, or tired, or both. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t show much reaction of any kind. “Murder? Whose murder? I don’t understand. What about Eva?”

“Get your wife and I’ll answer your questions.”

“Does this have anything to do with your… accident?”

“Tangentially.”

“Tell me this much. Is Eva all right?”

“She was when I saw her.”

“You saw her? When?”

“Friday.”

“Friday? Why haven’t you—”

“Get your wife.”

Thirty seconds or more passed before he stood. His legs seemed to find more intent as they traversed back across the rug.

He was gone almost twenty minutes. I spent most of the time debating whether to beat it while I had the chance, but I’d come with a purpose in mind. When he returned, Felix/Polina—I hadn’t worked out which way to think of her—was with him. She was dressed in a rose top and black slacks, no makeup or jewelry. She’d been crying. Sorrow—or anger—turned to surprise as she came close.

“You… What happened?”

“Lachko and I agreed to disagree. But it took some time to get to that point.”

“My God. Lachko did that?”

“He had help.” And I still had some pride.

She didn’t express sorrow for my pains. On the other hand, she didn’t say I deserved them. She and Mulholland sat across from me. He looked at her. She looked at me. I let them look until Mulholland started visibly losing patience.

I nodded toward him but kept my eyes on Polina. “How much have you told him about me?”

She shook her head.

“And Lachko?”

Another shake.

“You’re a piece of work, Polya.”

“Polya?” Mulholland said.

“Say what you came to say and get out,” Polina said.

“Felix, I—”

“I know you hired him to find Eva, but this man is not our friend,” she said. “He’s a born liar.”

“What about Eva, Mr. Vlost?” Mulholland asked. “You said you saw her. Where was she?”

“The W Hotel on Union Square. She had a room under a borrowed name. She’d borrowed the cash to pay for it, too.”

“Borrowed?”

“I was being polite. Stolen. The last time I checked, she’d removed almost eight thousand dollars from various people’s bank accounts, using information she bought on the Internet. She used her boyfriend’s account for that, but he won’t mind. He’s the one who was murdered.”

I was watching Polina. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t move her eyes from my stitched-up visage. I still remembered all too well what her cold shoulder felt like, and she’d added more than a few layers of ice since then. Mulholland just looked lost. I felt sorry for him, but it was Polina’s armor I was trying to find a chink in.

Nobody spoke for a minute. Then Polina said, “Why didn’t you bring her home? That’s what we’re paying you to do.”

“She didn’t want to come, for one thing. She ran before I could change her mind, for another. She took off when I told her Rislyakov—that’s her late boyfriend—worked for Lachko. Why’s she so afraid of him?”

“Look in a mirror and ask that question again.”

“I’m not his daughter.”

“Who’s Lachko?” Mulholland asked. “You said that name before.”

“Your move,” I said to Polina.

“You should have died in the camps.” She spoke Russian. “They’re the only place you ever fit in.”

“You and Lachko agree on that much,” I replied in our native tongue, “but I think you just blew your cover with Hubby Number Three.”

“Eb tvoju mat’!” She stepped forward and slapped me once with the flat of her hand and again with the back side, setting my face afire. Her insult, a form of “fuck you” that translates literally as “I fucked your mother,” is one of the worst in the Russian language.

“Felix!” Mulholland shouted.

“Get him out of here. He makes me sick to my stomach,” she said, in English.

“If I leave here now, I go straight to the police.” I was watching her again. Despite the show of temper, the ice was still in place.

Mulholland spoke. “You said murder. Who’s this Rislyakov? What’s he have to do with Eva? What’s he have to do with us?”

“You want to tell him?” I said to Polina.

She stared back silently as she sat, sparks of hatred shooting through the indigo. I tried to feel some regret for what I was doing, but not very hard, and none came.

“Rad Rislyakov is—was—a computer whiz. He worked for a man named Lachko Barsukov, big-time mobster. I’ve known Lachko half my life, and there’s nothing good I can say about him. Maybe your wife has a kind word—she’s known him nearly as long as I have. I’ll let her fill in the details, or you can try Google. He probably has a Wikipedia entry. Rislyakov is the guy who phished you with that fake letter back in March.

“What? How do you—”

“For now, just accept that I know and what I know is fact. If anything I say is conjecture, I’ll flag it.”

“He lies,” Polina said. “His whole life is one big lie. Don’t believe a word.”

“I deceived Polina years ago—about myself, an act of omission, not commission, born of love mixed with fear. I’ve been paying for my sin ever since, and my transgressions will never be erased in her mind. I can’t do anything about that. She can tell you that story, too, or I will, but right now we’re talking about Rislyakov.”

“Bastard,” Polina hissed.

“Go on,” Mulholland said.

“Rislyakov learned a great deal from his phishing expedition—he had access to all your computers for weeks. One of the things he picked up was Eva’s drug use and stay in rehab. Rislyakov had a gambling problem—he used that to get himself checked into the same place, where he struck up a relationship. Eva claims he loved her. Little doubt she loved him. My money says he was using her for other purposes.”

“You’d know,” Polina said.

“Rislyakov stole a large file from one of your computers. It belonged to your wife, I’m almost certain of that. Polina doesn’t panic often. She did then.”

“What’s this Polina business?”

“Sorry. That’s how I know her. Something else she can explain. You might want to start a list.”

She was up again, hand flying. This time I caught it in midair. “Lachko already did enough damage.”

She said, “I don’t have to put up with this.” She tried to pull away, but I held her wrist.

“We’re just getting to the good part.”

“Sit down, Felix,” Mulholland said in a voice that more ordinarily gave orders to subordinates. She heard it, too, and she hadn’t heard it before. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed. I let go of her arm, and she took her seat, perched on the edge.