Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

“Now I feel terrible that I ever brought it up… that flight… when we first met…”

“You mean when you were in jail?”

I spied a grin on his face and smiled to be agreeable and out of sheer relief that we were laughing about something.

“Right,” I said.

“How could you have known? Don’t worry about it. You said you have some new information. Let’s have it.”

“I met with George Romanov—”

“So you are working for the family.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that assertion.”

“If you want to learn to deny, no better teacher than a Russian—”

“And he told me that he was certain—that he had irrefutable evidence that Iskra had a client who took a particular interest in her.”

“I know all about that client,” De Vroom said. “And so do you. She drives a Porsche Macan and lives in Bruges. I’ve met with Sarah Dumont and spoken with her. She cooperated fully and she’s not a suspect. Have you met her?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“She’s innocent where the murder is concerned, though in all other matters I doubt that description applies.”

“We obviously met the same woman. So if you agree she’s innocent in Iskra’s murder, how could Romanov have told you something about her that you think is so important?”

“He didn’t.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He told me about another one of her clients that was even more infatuated with her.”

“Another woman?”

“I suspect there were other women ,” I said.

“Well, that was her business, right? So which one was it that Romanov said was obsessed with her? Who was she? What was her name?”

“She is a he. And his name is Eric De Vroom.”

De Vroom had steered me toward the building-side of the sidewalk after we started walking, choosing to walk along the street himself. This was standard operating procedure for a European gentleman, protecting the lady from the splash of a tire powering through a puddle or a stray elbow from a bicyclist. At least that’s what my father had taught me. But his position also gave him leverage in case he wanted to permanently shut my mouth by shoving me sideways into an alley, such as the one that was opening up right before me—

We passed the entrance to the alley without incident.

“Romanov misinformed you,” De Vroom said.

“So you deny having a relationship with Iskra?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You don’t deny it?” I said.

“Why would I deny the truth?”

“Now I’m the one who doesn’t understand.”

De Vroom shrugged, not a hint of discomfort, let alone guilt, in his voice or carriage. “I had a relationship with her the way you have one with any professional. But to say I was obsessed with her—that’s ridiculous. It sounds like something an angry father made up. An angry Russian father who’s got a vendetta against the Dutch, especially the detective who hasn’t solved his daughter’s murder.”

I stopped walking because I wanted to make sure I was hearing him correctly. “But you admit you had a professional relationship with her?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“You had sex with her for money.”

“I’m sure that hurts your American ears,” De Vroom said.

“You have no idea.”

“You’re a repressed country with your Christian-Judeo values. Iskra Romanova and I made a series of transactions within the law as consenting adults.”

“Romanov said that it was more than a series of transactions. He said he had it on good authority that you were hanging around her office on your off days.” I glanced at him and thought of his two daughters. “Erik… they said you were stalking her.”

“Good authority? Romanov must have talked to the Turk. He’s actually a good guy but he’s not the smartest man in the city. I might trust him as a bouncer if I owned a bar, but I wouldn’t trust him as my sister’s bodyguard. He only sees what he wants to see.”

“Are you saying you were a mirage and you weren’t really showing up at Iskra’s office at all hours of the day, every day of the week?”

De Vroom appeared more amused than concerned about anything I had just told him.

“Did I show up at random hours? Sure. My schedule, with the job and the kids… it fluctuates. But every day of the week… come on, now. I’m not twenty years old anymore.”

He laughed at himself, without pride, ego or concern that he could be proven to have been involved in Iskra’s murder, or any wrongdoing whatsoever.

“It was a tough time for me,” he said. “We all cope in different ways. For me, she turned out to be a tremendous outlet. She helped me find joy at a time when I was really struggling.”

“You make her sound like a therapist, and based on everything we know, she’s probably the one who needed therapy—”

“There’s this spot at the base of the head of a man’s penis. If you apply a certain amount of continuous pressure there, it results in the most excruciating and joyous tension a man can ever experience—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I said. “I get the picture.”

“If I’d told you I’d taken up handball or military-style morning boot camp, you would have thought that made perfect sense. Am I right?”

“Well…”

“But using sex as a form of therapy—you probably have a moral issue with it.”

“Does the police department not have a moral issue with you being the lead detective on the case given you—”

“Given I what?”

My voice rose. “Given you had a relationship with the victim.”

“A professional relationship. There was nothing personal about it at all. So not only is there no conflict, I have an edge. I knew the victim, a bit about her habits and work place. I am the perfect lead for the case.”

I stood dumbfounded for a moment, and then we resumed walking.

After a few steps, De Vroom appeared thoughtful as he mused out loud. “Iskra Romanova was an artist with a God-given talent.”

“Sure,” I said. “Like Van Gogh.”

“Make fun of it all you like. You and I, we are both on this Earth for a very short time. I’m getting all the pleasure and joy that I can within the confines of what is moral and just. Are you?”

“I’m practicing delayed gratification.”

“Maybe your pleasure is psychological while mine was physical,” De Vroom said.

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe having Mr. Simeon Simeonovich as your client provides you with the same kind of thrill that I experienced with Iskra.”

My face flushed.

“A limousine picked you up when I released you from jail,” he said. “Our camera caught the reflection of the man in the back seat in the side window when the driver opened the door for you to get inside. I traced the license plate. It belongs to a Danish subsidiary that’s part of the Orel Group, a conglomerate owned by a Russian billionaire. When I found this man’s photo on the internet, it matched the picture of the man in the back seat of the limo.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny my client’s identity.”

“You’re working for a Russian,” he said. “And to the average cop, that would be reason enough not to trust you. But you and I, I think we’re different. I think we’ve developed a certain relationship.”

“Now you’re scaring me, given the nature of some of your relationships… ”

“You and I know we shouldn’t trust each other because it’s our job to question everything and everyone and prepare for the unexpected. But deep down, I think we know we really can trust each other because we share a profound respect for one thing above all else.”

“A properly decorated cupcake?”

“The truth,” De Vroom said.