Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

“From the body,” I add. “Tom, can I go back for a minute, once they take him away?”

Tom nods. “I sent Courtland out to call Crenshaw.” That was the medical examiner’s name. “You may want to disappear for a while. Courtland’s in a fouler mood than usual.”

Both Waters and I decline to comment on just how foul the stairwell was as we passed it. “Will someone be here to let me back in?”

“Just give it an hour. Thompson, you can stay.”

Thompson doesn’t look thrilled, but he nods anyway. “I’ll be here, Mr. Bach.”

I shake hands with Waters again. “Good to meet you.”

“And you.”

I leave, pointedly ignoring Courtland as he provides Franklin Street with a large sampling of his flatulence. Ishmael’s is closed, so I keep walking, looking for anything suspicious. What I didn’t tell Tom and Waters — and especially Courtland — is that I’m almost certain Mr. Frieze is behind this in some way. Nothing special about the bullets. No mess. Expensive tools still on the workbench, and if I’d been the killer, I certainly would’ve taken a few of them. This is a statement killing, and it’s only a matter of time until I catch someone lurking around, making sure the police treat the murder as Mr. Frieze has paid them to do. And he has paid them; he’s paid them as long as I can remember, and when I was on the force, it was just something we worked around.

I’m three blocks down the street when I catch it: two men in long gray coats, standing on a second-floor balcony, mugs in their hands. The sign above their heads advertises coffee and baked goods — Lucy’s; I get my bread there sometimes — and Lucy has a cafe upstairs that serves breakfast.

These men are not the breakfast crowd. They may be dressed like they have office jobs, but the clock at the corner of Franklin and Main says half-past-nine, and they aren’t dressed well enough to be in charge.

Mr. Frieze knows me. He knows that I’m an investigator. But he’s not going to be pleased if he finds out that I have any part in this.

Damn.

I eventually get back to Pyotr Leonovich’s shop and, with Officer Thompson watching, I give the place a thorough going-over. All I can tell is that my late client was a tidy man who ate sparingly, dressed warmly, and kept his tools and equipment organized. It’s not until I get upstairs to the toilet — still hanging on to a hint of what Courtland did this morning — that I find the safe, hidden behind the wall cabinet. I don’t try to break in; the police have someone who can do that if needed. If I really need information, I’m going to have to get into Vasily’s rooms.

But not today. Today I clean my house. I open the windows, thankful it’s not snowing again, and wind up all of my fans to blow out the lived-in scent. I knock on my neighbor’s door and chat with her for a few minutes, and when we’re done she’s promised me to have a nice chicken dinner done up “for you and your friends.” She’s Canadian, escaped ahead of the Russian invasion with her husband, who died from the same influenza that took Pyotr Leonovich’s old boss. She cooks for me, and I haul firewood and coal for her, and fix her steam engines when they need maintenance or repair. It’s a nice little arrangement, and it means that when Alan and Alexandra come over, they don’t have to eat the boring meals I put together when I’m alone.

The sun goes down by five, and Alan shows up promptly at six. I invite him in, and once the door’s closed I clutch his shoulders and kiss him.

“We have to do this more often,” I say, still holding him.

“Yes.” Alan isn’t terribly loquacious even at the best of times. “Let’s go in, John.”

I’ve got dinner set out when Alexandra arrives, and I’ve opened a bottle of white wine as well. I let Alexandra in, holding the door open with my foot as I lean down and kiss her cold lips, holding her round cheeks in my hands. We hold the kiss for several seconds, though we keep it chaste. Alexandra and I aren’t in that kind of relationship.

“Alan,” she says when she gets to the dining room. “How are things?”

“Well, Alex. Thank you.” He pulls out a chair for her, and eases it in as she sits. I pour wine before taking my own seat, and we eat in companionable silence until my doorbell rings.

“Back in a moment,” I say. But no one’s at the door. All I find is an envelope on the floor. My finger is under the flap before I realize it’s got Alexandra’s name on the outside.

“Alex?”

“What is it?” she calls back.

“Something’s come for you.”

She comes to the front hall and I hand her the envelope; she opens it and scans the sheet of paper inside. Her skin is naturally pale, but the healthy blush from the warm house fades from her cheeks as she looks up at me. “It’s for you,” she says.

“It’s got your name on it.”

“It’s not that.” She bites her lower lip, then reads the short note. “’Tell your false lover he should leave the Novotny business alone. It would be a shame for the restaurateur Ishmael to lose his custom when it is revealed his chef prefers the company of men in the bedroom.’”

“Shit!” It’s a sharp whisper.

“What do we do? Do we tell him?”

“Of course we tell him,” I say, putting my hand on Alex’s lower back. Her face flushes as we walk back to the dining room. “Alan, you need to read this.”

He skims the two-sentence message, then balls it up and slings it through the open door to the kitchen. “I’m not afraid,” he says. “Sit. Eat.”

We sit down, but no one feels much like eating now. “Alan, it wouldn’t be fair to Ishmael if this gets out. You know that.”

“Ishmael is your friend,” Alan says. “I’ll explain it to him when I see him tomorrow. For now, put it out of your minds.” Alexandra seems like she wants to say something, but Alan holds up his hand. “I know who you work for, and I can guess where this comes from. Let it go.”

I take a couple of breaths, then drain the rest of my wine. “If we had a fourth, we could play bridge,” I say, full of false merriment.

Alexandra smiles. “Go on,” she says. “I’ll tidy up. I have my book, and there’s the radio. Go.”

Alan pushes back his chair and stands. “Thank you, Alex.” I make an affirmative noise and follow Alan out of the dining room and up the stairs to the bedroom. Once the door’s closed, I make a move to grab Alan, but he steps out of reach. “Sit down,” he tells me, and I go to the edge of the bed. Alan looks down at me, brown eyes dark and solid and full of concern. “Truth, John: are you going to let it go?”

My fists ball; I hit my knees with them. “I would,” I say. “I was going to.”

“And now?”

“Now…” I sigh. “Now they killed both Novotnys, and nothing except the deed to the property is keeping them from knocking down all those houses on the lake.”

“You have it.” I nod. It wasn’t a question. “You shouldn’t care.”

“I know. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.” I wipe my palms on the bedspread. “It’s just…”

He paces a few steps, back and forth. “What?”

I look up at Alan. There’s something hard and gnawing at the pit of my stomach. “When I was with the police, we let Mr. Frieze do what he wanted. I’ve seen him have a man shot for saying the wrong thing, and I still do business with him, and I justify it because I have to make a life somehow. Investigating… it doesn’t pay.”

“So find a way to make it pay,” he says. “Tell Frieze you’re done. That simple.”

“Damn it, it isn’t!” I get up from the bed and prowl around it; Alan sits next to where I was. “I’m sick of Mr. Frieze getting whatever he wants, and now he’s going to put dozens of people out of their homes. Vasily Novotny got in the way, and Mr. Frieze just brushed him aside. Him, his brother, and their friend.”