Perri O'Shaughnessy - Unlucky in Law

Wish shook his head. “I haven’t noticed any. I would bet most of the military people like what’s happening here. There’s no more shooting or scrambling through the brush. They’re all techies and administrators. Look, this is the building my class is in.”

“Looks like a circus tent.” The renovated buildings wore coats of raspberry, terra-cotta, yellow ochre, and teal on different sections, a fanatically modern architect’s ideal. Stucco covered in strange paint combos apparently meant campus; gray or white clapboard meant military.

Paul decided he liked the place. Tall dunes across Highway 1 hid the ocean, but the air held a sea zest, and the clash of colors, architecture, and cultures suited him.

In spite of Wish’s knowledge of the campus, they had a hard time finding the administrative hub. The purpose of some of the buildings remained unknowable. They asked two sets of people before locating a place with a map of the campus. Then, after picking up a parking permit, they set out to find Alex Zhukovsky.

They parked near a temporary building that housed classes in Russian along with several other languages. As they walked over, Paul noticed how quiet the place was. Bugs chittered in the fields around, and almost no cars were parked in the barren lots.

Zhukovsky’s office was located in front. He must have seen them coming, because he met them at the main door, which he unlocked.

Deano’s report hadn’t described him, except to say he taught languages. Zhukovsky was a little younger and shorter than Paul, late thirties, with red-rimmed eyes in a soft face marked by a fine, straight nose and an unhappy expression. He had the well-trimmed beard of a stereotypical academic and the belly of a sedentary type, but might be fitter than he looked. The brown hair was already receding into a V . He wore a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, belted jeans, a big emerald ring on his left pinky.

They introduced themselves and exchanged business cards, and he nodded impatiently. Instead of inviting them inside, he pulled the door shut behind him, saying, “Follow me. Let’s not waste time sitting around inside.”

The three set off, turning up the hill nearby. Zhukovsky’s pace was relentless, no trouble but faster than suited decent conversation. They didn’t have far to go. He stopped at the student center, and motioned toward the outside tables. “It’s better here in the sunshine,” he said. “A teacher spends too much time indoors.”

Once they sat down, Zhukovsky’s foot started tapping. He kept raising and lowering his shoulders, a strange tic. He was hyper, probably. How did he get through his classes? In his own youth Paul had found it unbearable to be stuck at a desk with a soothing voice droning somewhere in the distance, the equivalent of a warm summer day in a flower field, insects buzzing, sun shining, bored out of his skull and sleepy into infinity.

Of course, the instructor could pace around in front, even if he was in the cage, too. And maybe Zhukovsky’s fidgeting was a function of nerves. Paul studied him through his sunglasses and decided to be friendly.

“Good of you to see us,” he said. Finally, he added silently. Zhukovsky had stalled Paul for the past two weeks, refusing to meet with him. “I realize you’ve been interviewed before by someone from the Pohlmann firm.”

“Deano, he called himself,” Zhukovsky said with a lifted Elvis lip.

“We’re not like him,” Wish put in hastily, starting up a tiny recorder.

Deano stands alone, Paul thought, king of fools. He was looking forward to running into Deano soon.

“I don’t have much time. I teach a Saturday afternoon class for the dedicated and the crazy. I wouldn’t have talked to you again. But I have a demand.”

“Ms. Reilly-remember her? She’s the attorney for Stefan Wyatt and has a few more questions.”

“Speaking of crazy, she is if she thinks she’ll get Stefan Wyatt off.” He said “Stefan” with the accent on the second syllable, and Paul remembered that Wyatt’s mother was Polish. Zhukovsky spoke good old American English himself. “First, I tell you what I want. Then, maybe I’ll answer some questions.”

“Okay,” Paul said. He crossed his legs and looked amenable.

“I want my father’s bones back. My father, Constantin Zhukovsky.”

Paul and Wish exchanged looks.

“Tell me more,” Paul said.

“I received my father’s remains a couple of weeks ago, and had buried him once. This time the remains were cremated. You can understand why.” Paul did understand. The bones had been busy, getting dug up, riding around in back seats, and pawed over by police forensics technicians. “But now I find out two bones were withheld. Do you understand how infuriating this is? How disrespectful?” He jabbed a thick finger into Paul’s chest, never a good idea, saying, “I’ve been informed by the D.A.’s office that your people have them.”

Paul held up his hands, to show there were no bones there, but he was aching to jab back, show Zhukovsky what a real jab felt like.

“I want to know why, and I want to know where the hell you are keeping them.”

When Paul said nothing, he said more reasonably, “I have a right to know, don’t I? He was my father.”

“They were considered evidence. The remaining bones are in Sacramento being tested by our expert, a forensic scientist, Ginger Hirabayashi, and they’ll be released once the trial is over.”

“Tested? What? Why? You have no right! The D.A. never tested my father’s bones. They have nothing to do with my sister’s murder. I want all testing discontinued immediately. Tell your boss I’ll sue her if I don’t get them back within a week.” He folded his arms, glaring.

“I’ll get back to you. I’m a mere functionary in such matters.”

“Do that,” Zhukovsky demanded. “I don’t think you people fully comprehend what I’ve been going through. My sister is dead, murdered. It’s the worst thing I can remember, worse than losing my father. At least he lived his full life. Now she’s a spectacle, remembered for all the wrong reasons, as the victim of a ghoulish crime.” He had Stalin’s black eyebrows, which ruined an otherwise rather pleasant face. “It’s a shock I will never get over, and then, on top of it, this never-ending thing with my father…”

“My turn, now? I’m wondering,” Paul said, “how close were you and your sister, Christina?”

“She was older, and, growing up, we weren’t close. We became closer as we reached adulthood.”

“Were you close enough to know her lovers?” Paul asked.

The foot-tapping stopped abruptly. The shoulders hesitated. This was not a question to ask a brother, Zhukovsky’s disapproving face said. “What?”

“Who she was sleeping with,” Wish said helpfully.

“Christina didn’t confide in me in that way,” Alex Zhukovsky said, gathering himself, his agitation showing itself in the rapid eye movements, the shifting of weight, the folding of a napkin. He didn’t like this.

“Oh, you probably knew.” Wish seemed to be studying the professor. “Even if she didn’t tell you.”

Zhukovsky said nothing.

Paul flipped through his notebook. “Witnesses say she was having a relationship with a man named Sergey Krilov.”

“What witnesses?” The thought of witnesses clearly jarred the professor.

“You know Krilov?”

“I know about him,” he admitted. “You’re right. They had a relationship for a while. She ended it.”

“Was that the day of the conference, or before it?”

“What do you know about that?”

“We know you were there and so was she, along with a bunch of Russian visitors. She was seen arguing with Krilov.”