Wolves Eat Dogs Read online

  Upper and lower body collapsed into a ring of dust that exploded from the pavement.

  Pasha Ivanov settled as the doors of the chase car swung open and, in slow motion, the guards swam around his body.

  Arkady watched to see whether any of the security team, while they were in the car and before Ivanov came out of the sky, glanced up; then he watched for anything like the saltshaker dropping with Ivanov or shaken loose by the force of the fall. Nothing. And then he watched to see whether any of the guards picked up anything afterward. No one did. They stood on the pavement, as useful as potted plants.

  The doorman on duty kept looking up. He said, "I was in Special Forces, so I've seen parachutes that didn't deploy and bodies you scraped off the ground, but someone coming out of the sky here? And Ivanov, of all people. A good guy, I have to say, a generous guy. But what if he'd hit the doorman, did he think about that? Now a pigeon goes overhead and I duck."

  "Your name?" Arkady asked.

  "Kuznetsov, Grisha." Grisha still had the army stamp on him. Wary around officers.

  "You were on duty two days ago?"

  "The day shift. I wasn't here at night, when it happened, so I don't know what I can tell you."

  "Just walk me around, if you would."

  "Around what?"

  "The building, front to back."

  "For a suicide? Why?"

  "Details."

  "Details," Grisha muttered as the traffic went by. He shrugged.

  "Okay."

  The building was short-staffed on weekends, Grisha said, only him, the receptionist and the passenger elevator man. Weekdays, there were two other men for repairs, working the service door and service elevator, picking up trash. Housecleaners on weekdays, too, if residents requested. Ivanov didn't. Everyone had been vetted, of course. Security cameras covered the street, lobby, passenger elevator and service alley. At the back of the lobby Grisha tapped in a code on a keypad by a door with a sign that said staff only. The door eased open, and Grisha led Arkady into an area that consisted of a changing room with lockers, sink, microwave; toilet; mechanical room with furnace and hot-water heater; repair shop where two older men Grisha identified as Fart A and Fart B were intently threading a pipe; residents' storage area for rugs, skis and such, ending in a truck bay. Every door had a keypad and a different code.

  Grisha said, "You ought to go to NoviRus Security. Like an underground bunker. They've got everything there: building layout, codes, the works."

  "Good idea." NoviRus Security was the last place Arkady wanted to be. "Can you open the bay?"

  Light poured in as the gate rolled up, and Arkady found himself facing a service alley wide enough to accommodate a moving van. Dumpsters stood along the brick wall that was the back of shorter, older buildings facing the next street over. There were, however, security cameras aimed at the alley from the bay where Arkady and Grisha stood, and from the new buildings on either side. There was also a green-and-black motorcycle standing under a No Parking sign.

  Something about the way the doorman screwed up his face made Arkady ask, "Yours?"

  "Parking around here is a bitch. Sometimes I can find a place and sometimes I can't, but the Farts won't let me use the bay. Excuse me." As they walked to the bike, Arkady noticed a cardboard sign taped to the saddle: don't touch this bike, I am watching you. Grisha borrowed a pen from Arkady and underlined "watching." "That's better."

  "Quite a machine."

  "A Kawasaki. I used to ride a Uralmoto," Grisha said, to let Arkady know how far he had come up in the world.

  Arkady noticed a pedestrian door next to the bay. Each entry had a separate keypad. "Do people park here?"

  "No, the Farts are all over them, too."

  "Saturday, when the mechanics weren't on duty?"

  "When we're short-staffed? Well, we can't leave our post every time a car stops in the alley. We give them ten minutes, and then we chase them out."

  "Did that happen this Saturday?"

  "When Ivanov jumped? I'm not on at night."

  "I understand, but during your shift, did you or the receptionist notice anything unusual in the alley?"

  Grisha took a while to think. "No. Besides, the back is locked tight on Saturdays. You'd need a bomb to get in."

  "Or a code."

  "You'd still be seen by the camera. We'd notice."

  "I'm sure. You were in front?"

  "At the canopy, yes."

  "People were going in and out?"

  "Residents and guests."

  "Anyone carrying salt?"

  "How much salt?"

  "Bags and bags of salt."

  "No."

  "Ivanov wasn't bringing home salt day after day? No salt leaking from his briefcase?"

  "No."

  "I have salt on the brain, don't I?"

  "Yeah." Said slowly.

  "I should do something about that."

  The Arbat was a promenade of outdoor musicians, sketch artists and souvenir stalls that sold strands of amber, nesting dolls of peasant women, retro posters of Stalin. Dr. Novotny's office was above a cybercafe. She told Arkady that she was about to retire on the money she would make selling to developers who planned to put in a Greek restaurant. Arkady liked the office as it was, a drowsy room with overstuffed chairs and Kandinsky prints, bright splashes of color that could have been windmills, bluebirds, cows. Novotny was a brisk seventy, her face a mask of lines around bright dark eyes.

  "I first saw Pasha Ivanov a little more than a year ago, the first week in May. He seemed typical of our new entrepreneurs. Aggressive, intelligent, adaptable; the last sort to seek psychotherapy. They are happy to send in their wives or mistresses; it's popular for the women, like feng shui, but the men rarely come in themselves. In fact, he missed his last four sessions, although he insisted on paying for them."

  "Why did he choose you?"

  "Because I'm good."

  "Oh." Arkady liked a woman who came straight to the point.

  "Ivanov said he had trouble sleeping, which is always the way they start. They say they want a pill to help them sleep, but what they want me to prescribe is a mood elevator, which I am willing to do only as part of a broader therapy. We met once a week. He was entertaining, highly articulate, possessed of enormous self-confidence. At the same time, he was very secretive in certain areas, his business dealings for one, and, unfortunately, whatever was the cause of his..."

  "Depression or fear?" Arkady asked.

  "Both, if you need to put it that way. He was depressed, and he was afraid."

  "Did he mention enemies?"

  "Not by name. He said that ghosts were after him." Novotny opened a box of cigars, took one, peeled off the cellophane and slipped the cigar band over her finger. "I'm not saying that he believed in ghosts."

  "Aren't you?"

  "No. What I'm saying is that he had a past. A man like him gets to where he is by doing many remarkable things, some of which he might later regret."

  Arkady described the scene at Ivanov's apartment. The doctor said that the broken mirror certainly could have been an expression of self-loathing, and jumping from a window was a man's way out. ''However, the two most usual motives of suicide for men are financial and emotional, often evidenced as atrophied libido. Ivanov had wealth and a healthy sexual relationship with his friend Rina."

  "He used Viagra."

  "Rina is much younger."

  "And his physical health?"

  "For a man his age, good."

  "He didn't mention an infection or a cold?"

  "No."

  "Did the subject of salt ever come up?"

  "No."

  "The floor of his closet was covered with salt."

  "That is interesting."

  "But you say he recently missed some sessions."

  "A month's worth, and sporadically before then."

  "Did he mention any attempts on his life?"

  Novotny turned the cigar band around her finger. "Not in so many words
. He said he had to stay a step ahead."

  "A step ahead of ghosts, or someone real?"

  "Ghosts can be very real. In Ivanov's case, however, I think he was pursued by both ghosts and someone real."

  "Do you think he was suicidal?"

  "Yes. At the same time, he was a survivor."

  "Do you think, considering everything, he killed himself?"

  "He could have. Did he? You're the investigator." Her face shifted into a sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help you more. Would you like a cigar? It's Cuban."

  "No, thank you. Do you smoke?"

  "When I was a girl, all the modern, interesting women smoked cigars. You'd look good with a cigar. One more thing, Investigator. I got the impression that there was a cyclical nature to Ivanov's bouts of depression. Always in the spring, always early in May. In fact, right after May Day. But I must confess, May Day always deeply depressed me, too."

  It wasn't easy to find an unfashionable restaurant among the Irish pubs and sushi bars in the center of Moscow, but Victor succeeded. He and Arkady had macaroni and grease served at a stand-up cafeteria around the corner from the militia headquarters on Petrovka. Arkady was happy with black tea and sugar, but Victor had a daily requirement of carbohydrates that was satisfied best by beer. From his briefcase Victor took morgue photos of Ivanov, frontal, dorsal and head shot, and spread them between the plates. One side of Ivanov's face was white, the other side black.

  Victor said, "Dr. Toptunova said she didn't autopsy suicides. I asked her, 'What about your curiosity, your professional pride? What about poisons or psychotropic drugs?' She said they'd have to do biopsies, tests, waste the precious resources of the state. We agreed on fifty dollars. I figure Hoffman is good for that."

  "Toptunova is a butcher." Arkady really didn't want to look at the pictures.

  "You don't find Louis Pasteur doing autopsies for the militia. Thank God she operates on the dead. Anyway, she says Ivanov broke his neck. Fuck your mother, I could have told them that. And if it hadn't been his neck, it would have been his skull. Drugwise, he was clean, although she thought he had ulcers from the condition of his stomach. There was one odd thing. In his stomach? Bread and salt."

  "Salt?"

  "A lot of salt and just enough bread to get it down."

  "She didn't mention anything about his complexion?"

  "What was to mention? It was mainly one big bruise. I questioned the doorman and lobby receptionist again. They have the same story: no problems, no breach. Then some guy with dachshunds tried to pick me up. I showed him my ID to shake him up, you know, and he says, 'Oh, are they having another security check?' Saturday the building staff shut down the elevator and went to every apartment to check who was in. The guy was still upset. His dachshunds couldn't wait and had a little accident."

  "Which means there was a breach. When did they do this check?"

  Victor consulted his notebook. "Eleven-ten in the morning at his place. He's on the ninth floor, and I think they worked their way down."

  "Good work." Arkady couldn't imagine who would want to pick up Victor, but applause was indicated.

  "A different subject." Victor laid down a picture of two buckets and mops. "These I found in the lobby of the building across from Ivanov's. Abandoned, but the name of the cleaning service was on them, and I found who left them. Vietnamese. They didn't see Ivanov dive; they ran when they saw militia cars, because they're illegals."

  Menial tasks that Russians wouldn't do, Vietnamese would. They came as "guest workers" and went into hiding when their visas expired. Their wardrobe was the clothes on their back, their accommodations a workers' hostel, their family connection the money they sent home once a month. Arkady could understand laborers who slipped into the golden tent of America, but to sneak into the mouse-eaten sack that was Russia, that was desperate.

  "There's more." Victor picked macaroni off his chest. The detective had changed his gray sweater for one of caterpillar orange. He licked his fingers clean, gathered the photos and replaced them with a file that said in red: not to be removed from this office.

  "Dossiers on the four attempts on Ivanov's life. This is rich. First attempt was a doorway shooting here in Moscow by a disgruntled investor, a schoolteacher whose savings were wiped out. The poor bastard misses six times. Tries to shoot himself in the head and misses again. Makhmud Nasir. Got four years – not bad. Here's his address, back in town. Maybe he's got glasses now.

  "Second attempt is hearsay, but everyone swears it's true. Ivanov rigged an auction for some ships in Archangel, got them for nothing and also bent some local noses out of shape. A competitor sends a contract killer, who blows up Ivanov's car. Ivanov is impressed, finds the killer and pays him double to murder the man who sent him, and shortly after, supposedly, a guy falls in the water in Archangel and doesn't come up for air.

  "Third: Ivanov took the train to Leningrad. Why the train, don't ask. On the way, you know how it is, someone pumps sleeping gas into the compartment to rob the passengers, usually the tourists. Ivanov is a light sleeper. He wakes, sees this guy coming in and shoots him. Everyone said it was an overreaction until they found a razor and a picture of Ivanov in the dead man's coat. He also had some worthless Ivanov stock.

  "Fourth, and this is the best: Ivanov is in the South of France with friends. They're all zipping back and forth on Jet Skis, the way rich people carry on. Hoffman gets on Ivanov's Jet Ski, and it sinks. It flips upside down, and guess what's stuck to the bottom, a little limpet of plastique ready to explode. The French police had to clear the harbor. See, that's what gives Russian tourists a bad name."

  "Who were Ivanov's friends?" Arkady asked.

  "Leonid Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch, his very best friends. And one of them probably tried to kill him."

  "Was there an investigation?"

  "Are you joking? You know our chances of even saying hello to any of these gentlemen? Anyway, that was three years ago, and nothing has happened since."

  "Fingerprints?"

  "Worst for last. We got prints off all the drinking glasses. Just Ivanov's, Timofeyev's, Zurin's and the girl's."

  "What about Pasha's mobile phone? He always had a mobile phone."

  "We're not positive."

  "Find the mobile phone. Ivanov's driver said he had one."

  "While you're doing what?"

  "Colonel Ozhogin has arrived."

  "The Colonel Ozhogin?"

  "That's right."

  Victor saw things in a different light. "I'll look for the mobile phone."

  "The head of NoviRus Security wants to consult."

  "He wants to consult your balls on a toothpick. If Ivanov was pushed, how does that make the head of security look? Did you ever see Ozhogin wrestle? I saw him in an all-republic tournament – he broke his opponent's arm. You could hear it snap across the hall. You know, even if we did find a mobile phone, Ozhogin would take it away. He answers to Timofeyev now. The king is dead, long live the king." Victor lit a cigarette as a digestif. "The thing about capitalism, it seems to me, is, a business partner has the perfect combination of motive and opportunity for murder. Oh hey, I got something for you." Victor came up with a plastic phone card.

  "What's this for? A free call?" Arkady knew that Victor had strange ways of sharing a bill.

  "No. Well, I don't know, but what it's great for..." Victor jimmied the card between two fingers. "Locks. Not dead bolts, but you'd be amazed. I got one, and I got one for you, too. Put it in your wallet."

  "Almost like money."

  Two young men settled at the next table with bowls of ravioli. They wore the jackets and stringy ties of office workers. They also had the shaved skulls and scabby knuckles of skinheads, which meant they might be office drudges during the day, but at night they led an intoxicating life of violence patterned on Nazi storm troopers and British hooligans.

  One gave Arkady a glare and said, "What are you looking at? What are you, a pervert?"

  Victor br
ightened. "Hit him, Arkady. Go ahead, hit the punk, I'll back you up."

  "No, thanks," Arkady said.

  "A little fisticuffs, a little dustup," Victor said. "Go on, you can't let him talk like that. We're a block from headquarters, you'll let the whole side down."

  "If he doesn't, he's a queer," the skinhead said.

  "If you won't, I will." Victor started to rise.

  Arkady pulled him back by his sleeve. "Let it go."

  "You've gone soft, Arkady, you've changed."

  "I hope so."

  Ozhogin's office was minimalist: a glass desk, steel chairs, gray tones. A full-size model of a samurai in black lacquered armor, mask and horns stood in a corner. The colonel himself, although he was packaged in a tailored shirt and silk tie, still had the heavy shoulders and small waist of a wrestler. After having Arkady sit, Ozhogin let the tension percolate.

  Colonel Ozhogin actually had two pedigrees. First, he was a wrestler from Georgia, and at wrapping opponents into knots Georgians were the best. Second, he had been KGB. The KGB may have suffered a shake-up and a title change, but its agents had prospered, moving like crows to new trees. After all, when the call went out for men with language skills and sophistication, who better to step forward?

  The colonel slid a form and clipboard across the desk.

  "What's this?" Arkady asked.

  "Take a look."

  The form was a NoviRus employment application, with spaces for name, age, sex, marriage status, address, military service, education, advanced degrees. Applying for: banking, investment fund, brokerage, gas, oil, media, marine, forest resources, minerals, security, translation and interpreting. The group was especially interested in applicants fluent in English, MS Office, Excel; familiar with Reuters, Bloomberg, RTS; IT literate; with advanced degrees in sciences, accounting, interpreting/translation, law or combat skills; under thirty-five a plus. Arkady had to admit, he wouldn't have hired himself. He pushed the form back. "No, thanks."

  "You don't want to fill it out? That's disappointing."

  "Why?"

  "Because there are two possible reasons for you being here. A good reason would be that you've finally decided to join the private sector. A bad reason would be that you won't leave Pasha Ivanov's death alone. Why are you trying to turn a suicide into a homicide?"