Three Stations ar-7 Read online

  Victor said, "We're back where we started with Olga. I checked with Missing Persons. Nobody's missed her yet."

  "We can cover the apartments together."

  "Do we have to? I mean, what's the point? No one cares about a dead prostitute."

  "What if she's not?" Arkady asked. "What if Olga was not a prostitute?"

  "You're joking."

  "What if she's not?"

  "Excuse me, but the only thing we know for certain about this case is that Olga was a prostitute. She dressed like a prostitute, was tattooed like a prostitute and she pulled off her panties like a prostitute in a trailer no normal person would set foot in."

  "What everybody notices about her is that she doesn't have a scratch or a bruise. No needle tracks. Victor, show me a prostitute here that isn't damaged one way or the other."

  "She was new in the game is all. See, I know what you're up to. You're trying to keep me too busy to drink. I'm not a dog you keep busy chasing a ball." Victor had a vicious grin. "I'd kill for a drink."

  "Where are her rings? From her tan lines she had five rings on her fingers. They weren't in her bag."

  "Probably the man she was with took them. Maybe that's what was going on, a robbery."

  "For a streetwalker's jewelry? Did you get any pictures?"

  Victor produced a pocket-size video camera.

  "Enjoy."

  The first image on the view panel was Olga as she was found half naked on the mattress, her head turned, her legs crossed so that her right heel touched her left toe. Her right arm was raised overhead as if she were a bride tossing her bouquet over her shoulder. Victor had carried out some interviews. The prostitutes were righteously pleased that an interloper had been eliminated. Pimps turned away. Street boys were disappointed that the body was not on display. The homeless asked for loose change. Drunks screwed up their faces in confusion. All in all, they constituted a human menagerie, not a witness pool.

  Arkady rewound back to Olga.

  "That's an unnatural position."

  "So?"

  "As if he killed her and arranged her body. He pulled her panties off so that we would gape. Gape and not see." Arkady thought there was just a chance that someone in the dark glowed with pride. He looked up at the apartment building on the other side of the station, at balconies with a perfect view.

  The building was eight stories high, six one-bedroom apartments to a floor. Victor and Arkady only called on the five apartments that had been lit when they first answered the radio call.

  Apartment 2C. Volchek and Primakov, bear-size Siberians with furtive eyes. Both loggers, thirty-five years of age, in rooms so cold the air conditioner shivered. The scent of something rotten was coated by the floral spray of an air freshener. A saw lay in the bathtub. In the refrigerator, mold and a case of beer. They said they had played cards and watched DVDs all night. Arkady pictured them swatting salmon in a stream.

  Apartment 4F. Weitzman, ninety, widower, retired metallurgist, observant Jew who took seriously the Torah's injunction against operating equipment during Shabbos. From sunset Friday to sunset Saturday even flicking an electrical switch or turning a dial was forbidden. If he wanted to take the elevator, he had to ride it until someone went to his floor. He had shaped his life to take into account every possible misstep, but he had nodded off during a television documentary on Putin's early years- Just Another Boy! — and awoke to a rebroadcast of the same show. He had seen the documentary six times so far. When Arkady turned off the set it was like cutting a man down from the rack.

  Apartment 4D. Army General Kassel, forty-two, answered the door in a civilian raincoat and shoes.

  The general was a resident of Petersburg in Moscow on what he claimed was military business, although Arkady saw expended champagne bottles on the floor and heard a woman sobbing in the bedroom.

  In a whisper Kassel said he was only passing through and hadn't noticed a black trailer in the dark at a hundred meters and knew nothing about any activity there.

  Arkady asked the general how long he had been awake.

  "You woke me up."

  Victor asked, "Were you here all night?"

  "With my wife."

  "Who besides your wife?"

  "No one."

  A bad lie poorly told unless Kassel slept half dressed. And the array of dirty glasses and full ashtrays were the remains of a larger party than two. Also Kassel's weight was forward on the balls of his feet, waiting for something, anticipating something.

  But if Kassel was hiding something, who wasn't? As Victor liked to say, "That's the problem with interrogations, so many lies, so little time."

  Apartment 3C. Anna Furtseva at eighty-eight was a living legend. Arkady and Victor didn't know she was that Anna Furtseva until the door was opened by a small, imperious woman in a rich caftan, lips mainly lipstick and eyes outlined in kohl. Behind her stood life-size photographs of black men with penis sheaths and hair adorned with feathers of birds of paradise. Of Masai warriors mixing a drink of milk and blood. Of Russian convicts covered in tattoos.

  "You'll have some tea," Furtseva said. It was a statement, not a question.

  While she bustled to the kitchen Arkady took in the rest of the apartment, a magpie's nest of the exotic and almost junk: a Persian carpet, ottomans with split leather, Mexican serapes, Balinese puppets, stuffed monkeys and photographs on every surface. Across the room an ancient wolfhound sighed.

  Victor saluted photographs of a young Furtseva with Hemingway, Kennedy, Yevtushenko and Fidel.

  "The major cocksmen of our time."

  "Pardon?" Furtseva returned with a tray of tea, sugar and jam.

  "Your photographs are a major comment on our time," Arkady said.

  "Ahead of its time," Victor maintained.

  Furtseva poured. "Yes. We called the show of the three men Evolution. It was 1972. The KGB tore it down the same day we put it up. We resisted but we were goldfish against sharks. I am surprised you even heard of it."

  "But it was historic," Victor said.

  "With history goes age. Age is overrated. Do notice the portraits of dancers on the piano. From Nijinsky to Baryshnikov." They were all male and captured in midair, except for an older man in a white suit hanging back in the shadow of a doorway. "I'm afraid Nijinsky was a little gaga by the time I caught up with him."

  He and Victor sank into ottomans while Furtseva settled in a chair, her legs tucked up in a girlish fashion. It struck Arkady that if Cleopatra had lived to eighty-eight she would have looked a little like Furtseva. Everything was done with a flourish. When the wolfhound farted Furtseva lit a match and burned off the methane in the air with a royal wave. "Now tell me what this is all about. I'm on pins and needles. I saw an ambulance take someone from the trailer. Did somebody die?"

  "A girl," Victor said. "Probably from an overdose, but we have to consider every possibility. Were you awake at midnight?"

  "Of course."

  "Do you suffer from insomnia?"

  "I benefit from insomnia. However, I have developed a problem with sunlight. I can't let any into the apartment. I have to draw these ridiculous blue shades during the day and I can only go out at night. The joke is on me since I'm a photographer."

  Victor said, "So you do still take photographs."

  "Oh, yes. Such interesting characters to see at Three Stations. Like creatures at a watering hole."

  Victor politely dunked his sugar cube. "Did you see the trailer being taken away?"

  "Of course."

  "Did you notice anyone go in or out of the trailer before it was taken away?"

  "No. Was the girl a prostitute?"

  "That's all we know for sure."

  "I suppose the trailer was taken away for more analysis?"

  Near the Arctic Circle, Arkady thought.

  The dog hiccuped and Furtseva opened a fresh box of matches.

  Victor asked, "You saw nothing unusual tonight?"

  "Apart from the removal of the trailer, no. I'm s
orry, gentlemen."

  Victor stood and almost bowed. "Thank you, Madame Furtseva, for the excellent tea. If you remember something else, anything at all, please call me. I'm leaving you my card." He laid it by his cup.

  She hesitated. "There is one thing. I suppose it's totally unrelated."

  "Please. You never know."

  "Well, my downstairs neighbors, the two Siberians…"

  "Volchek and Primakov. We've met them."

  "Not tonight but the night before they snuck into the building with body bags. Full bags. Yesterday I got off on the wrong floor-they all look the same, you know-and before I put my key in the door, I heard them talk about dismembering a body."

  Furtseva's eyes shined.

  Arkady joined the conversation. "You were snooping."

  "Not intentionally."

  "Did you try your key in the lock?"

  "No."

  "How long were you at the door?"

  "A few seconds. Ten at the most."

  "Did they open the door?"

  "Yes, but I sent the elevator to the top while I took the stairs holding my shoes."

  "A close call."

  "Yes."

  "You're very pleased with yourself."

  "You don't have to whisper. My hearing is excellent."

  "Do you wear eyeglasses?"

  "For reading."

  "For reading but not for distance? Do you understand what I mean by distance?"

  "I was a filmmaker in the war. I learned how to calculate distance at Stalingrad."

  This was dangerous, Arkady thought. He and Victor were walking on their knees from lack of sleep. Thanks for the tea, but the last thing they needed was a legend aching for adventure. From the alarm on Victor's face he finally grasped the peril they were in.

  Arkady said, "Very well, Madame Furtseva, please tell me carefully what Volchek and Primakov said. Their exact words."

  "Exactly?"

  "Exactly."

  "In that Siberian drawl of theirs one said, 'Where do I bury her fucking head?' The other said, 'Up your ass, where your head is.' The first one said, 'She's going to leave a real mess in the fucking van.' The second one said, 'Stop shitting your pants. She's been dead long enough; she's not going to bleed.' Then they suddenly stopped talking and that's when I left the door."

  She lit a match as if for punctuation.

  Arkady said, "These are not men to fool around with. Have you seen them since then?"

  "No, but I certainly heard them."

  "Tonight?"

  "Yes."

  "Could you put a time to that?"

  "Since dinner. I heard them swearing and drinking beer and watching football."

  Victor asked, "You're absolutely sure, Madame Furtseva? All night? Here?"

  "Every minute."

  "Did they seem to show any interest when the trailer was removed?"

  "No."

  "Did they ever show any interest in the trailer anytime?"

  "No."

  Victor spread his arms in relief. The Siberians could slaughter victims left and right, but as long as they had no connection to the trailer, this was somebody else's mess.

  9

  Watching Maya was agony. Zhenya watched her futile attempts to accost passengers as they stepped off the morning train from Yaroslavl. Now the isolation she had maintained during the trip worked against her. No one remembered her red hair or her baby. No one had ever heard of Auntie Lena. She mentioned the card game and arguments. Like every other ride in hard class, people said. They were going to work. No time to talk. She ran after a priest she remembered by the crumbs on his beard. This time he wore a faint dusting of confectioners' sugar. He had no recollection of her.

  Zhenya saw Maya wilt under the maddening interrogation of babushkas. Darling, how could you lose a baby? Did you pray to Saint Christopher, dear? Was it your little brother? This never would have happened in the old days. Are you on drugs? At least when a Gypsy begs you see the baby.

  Including platforms, cafes, waiting rooms, tunnels, anterooms, nursery, ticket booths, there was too much ground to cover. Pedestrian underpasses were bottlenecked by shops and salesladies who wasted her time with scissors and clippers and hose until Maya wanted to scream. Finally she found herself in the main hall of the train station like a chess piece with every move exhausted.

  Not every move, Zhenya reminded himself. There was her razor and a wide selection of trains. In a mosaic of families and traders rising with the sun she was in free fall.

  Zhenya took a chair next to Maya. She didn't acknowledge him but she didn't leave. They sat like travelers, staring heavy-lidded at the digital clock above the arrival and departure board. As fatigue won out over fury her breathing slowed and her body relaxed. He figured that she hadn't eaten since the day before and handed her a candy bar.

  "Did that woman call?"

  It took him a moment to guess what woman she meant.

  "The platform woman? No, she hasn't called yet. She has my cell-phone number."

  "You're sure?"

  "I put it in her hand."

  "She seemed a good person."

  Zhenya shrugged. Social skills were not his strong point. In fact, for Zhenya, one of the most appealing aspects of chess was that victory was self-evident. Screw conversation. The winning player need not say anything other than "check" and "mate." The problem was that Zhenya was always either boastful or mute. Sometimes when he heard himself he wondered, Who is this jackass? He was aware how miserably he had failed in his first go-round with Maya. The moment was getting strained but he had to say something because militia with rubber truncheons had entered the waiting room to roust any homeless who had snuck in. The officers were led by the lieutenant who had chased Maya.

  Zhenya said, "Let's get some air."

  "We'll come back?"

  "Yes."

  "Without the investigator?"

  Her head shaved, her eyes seemed huge.

  "You two!"

  The lieutenant saw them when they stood. His attention was diverted, however, by a street boy who snatched a purse and bolted for the underpass. Zhenya steered Maya away from the chase and out the station's double doors to what he had always regarded as an open-air market of crap. Crap toys, crap souvenirs, crap fur hats, crap posters under a crap sky of floating shit. Today, he embraced it.

  They browsed the stalls. To extend Maya's wardrobe Zhenya bought her T-shirts featuring the Stones, Putin and Kurt Cobain; a knockoff sweatshirt from Cafe Hollywood; a cap from Saint-Tropez and a wig of human hair from India. Maya went along in a bemused way, as if she had caught him playing with dolls, until they reached a kiosk that sold cell phones. Zhenya decided that she should have a mobile phone in case they became separated.

  The kiosk was so crammed with electronic and video gear that the two vendors inside had to move in tandem. They were Albanians, father and son, practically clones, in tight shirts unbuttoned to display gold chains and body hair. They were willing to sell Zhenya a top-quality cell phone and SIM card, no contract and no monthly charges. No rip-offs. They showed Zhenya an unbroken seal on the box of a similar phone.

  "It's stolen," Zhenya said.

  The vendors laughed and looked at each other.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The bar code. It's simple. Drop the first and last bars, break the rest into groups of five, add the digits under the long bars and you have your zip code. You can get the delivery point too. This box was supposed to go from Hanover, Germany, to Warsaw, Poland. It was hijacked on the way. You should show this to the militia. Would you like me to check your other boxes?"

  People stopped to listen to Zhenya's flat robotic voice.

  "The other boxes?"

  "All the boxes."

  More people gathered. Traditionally no market was complete without entertainment, a puppet show or a dancing bear. Zhenya was today's.

  He said, "I shouldn't have to pay full price for something stolen. And the warranty is probably no
good when the goods are stolen."

  The son said, "Get out of here, you fucking freak."

  The old man, however, was aware that a sizable crowd was developing. He was protected against acts of violence such as arson or a brick through a window, not agitation from a wiseass who could read a bar code. Besides, strangling the creep right now might drag in the militia, which was like inviting in locusts.

  "Let me take care of the little prick." The younger vendor started out of the kiosk only to be held back by his father, who told Zhenya, "Pay no attention. So, my young sir, what do you think would be a fair price?"

  "Half off."

  "I'll throw in some phone cards, too, as a proof of no ill will."

  "In a bag."

  "As you wish." The father turned on a smile. A murmur of approval ran through the crowd.

  As soon as Zhenya and Maya were gone, another shopper stepped up to the kiosk and asked the father for the same discount.

  The old man turned on him. "Can you read a bar code?"

  "No."

  "Then go fuck yourself."

  Zhenya had never noticed before how interesting the market was with all its pirated CDs of hip-hop and heavy metal, T-shirts of Che and Michael Jackson, Chinese parasols, Muscovites with their noses in the air, women from Central Asia dragging a suitcase the size of an elephant calf, the sound of explosions rocking a game arcade while drunks reposed against a wall. That was pulsating life, wasn't it? More so than any plaster animal decoration on the station wall.

  "Was that a trick back there with the bar code?" Maya asked. "How did you do that?"

  "A magician never reveals his secrets."

  "What other secrets do you have?"

  "They'd be pretty poor secrets if I told you."

  "Is that why they call you 'genius,' because of the tricks and the chess?"

  "The trick of the bar code is that there is no trick. You just do the math."

  "Oh."

  "And as for chess, it's basically a matter of anticipating your opponent's moves. You go step-by-step. The more you play the easier it gets to cover every possibility."

  "Do you ever lose?"