Wolves Eat Dogs (6 page)

“That’s what we’ll investigate.”

Ozhogin brought his brows together, perplexed. He had pushed his opponent’s head through the wrestling mat, but the match went on. “You’re stopping now.”

“It’s up to Hoffman to call it off.”

“He’ll do what you say. Tell him that you’re satisfied.”

“There’s something missing.”

“What?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, you don’t know.” Ozhogin reached out and tapped the disk so it fluttered in the air. “Who’s the boy?”

“What boy?”

“You took a boy to the park.”

“You’re watching me.”

Ozhogin seemed saddened by such naïveté in a Russian. He said, “Pack it in, Renko. Tell your fat American friend that Pasha Ivanov committed suicide. Then why don’t you come back and fill out the form?”

Arkady found Rina curled up in a bathrobe in Ivanov’s screening room, a vodka bottle hanging from one hand and a cigarette from the other. Her hair was wet and clung to her head, making her appear even more childlike than usual. On the screen Pasha rose in the elevator, floor by floor, briefcase clasped to his chest, handkerchief to his face. He seemed exhausted, as if he had climbed a hundred stories. When the doors parted, he looked back at the camera. The system had a zoom capacity. Rina froze and magnified Pasha’s face so that it filled the screen, his hair lank, his cheeks almost powdery white, his black eyes sending their obscure message.

“That was for me. That was his good-bye.” Rina shot Arkady a glance. “You don’t believe me. You think it’s romantic bullshit.”

“At least half of what I believe is romantic bullshit, so I’m not one to criticize. Anything else?”

“He was sick. I don’t know with what. He wouldn’t see a doctor.” Rina put down her cigarette and pulled the robe tight. “The elevator operator let me in. Your detective was going out as I came in, looking pleased with himself.”

“A gruesome image.”

“I heard Bobby hired you.”

“He offered to. I didn’t know the market price for an investigator.”

“You’re no Pasha.
He
would have known.”

“I tried to reach Timofeyev. He’s not available. I suppose he’s picking up the reins of the company, taking charge.”

“He’s no Pasha, either. You know, business in Russia is very social. Pasha made his biggest deals in clubs and bars. He had the perfect personality for that. People liked to be around him. He was fun and generous. Timofeyev is a lump. I miss Pasha.”

Arkady took the seat beside her and relieved her of the vodka. “You designed this apartment for him?”

“I designed it for both of us, but all of a sudden, Pasha said I shouldn’t stay.”

“You never moved in?”

“Lately Pasha wouldn’t even let me in the door. At first I thought there was another woman. But he didn’t want anyone here. Not Bobby, no one.” Rina wiped her eyes. “He became paranoid. I’m sorry I’m so stupid.”

“Not a bit.”

The robe fell open again, and she pushed herself back in. “I like you, Investigator. You don’t look. You have manners.”

Arkady had manners, but he was also aware of how loosely tied the robe was.

“Did you know of any recent business setback? Anything financial that could have been on his mind?”

“Pasha was always making deals. And he didn’t mind losing money now and then. He said it was the price of education.”

“Anything else medical? Depression?”

“We didn’t have sex for the last month, if that counts. I don’t know why. He just stopped.” She stubbed out one cigarette and started another off Arkady’s. “You’re probably wondering how a nobody like me and someone as rich and famous as Pasha could meet. How would you guess?”

“You’re an interior designer. I suppose you designed something for him besides this apartment.”

“Don’t be silly. I was a prostitute. Design student and prostitute, a person of many talents. I was in the bar at the Savoy Hotel. It’s a fancy place, and you have to fit in, you can’t just sit there like any whore. I was pretending to carry on a mobile-phone conversation when Pasha came over and asked for my number so I could talk to someone real. Then, from across the bar, he called. I thought, What a big ugly Jew. He was, you know. But he had so much energy, so much charm. He knew everybody, he knew things. He asked about my interests—the usual stuff, you know, but he really listened, and he even knew about design. Then he asked how much I owed my roof—you know, my pimp—because Pasha said he would pay him off, set me up in an apartment and pay for design school. He was serious. I asked him why, and he said because he could see I was a good person. Would you do that? Would you bet on someone like that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that was Pasha.” She took a long draw on her cigarette.

“How old are you now?”

“Twenty.”

“And you met Pasha…”

“Three years ago. When we were talking on the phone at the bar, I asked if he preferred a redhead, because I could be that, too. He said life was too short, I should be whatever I was.”

The longer Arkady stared at the screen, at Pasha’s hesitation on the threshold of his apartment, the less he looked like a man afraid of a black mood. He seemed to dread something more substantial waiting for him.

“Did Pasha have enemies?”

“Naturally. Maybe hundreds, but nothing serious.”

“Death threats?”

“Not from anyone worth worrying about.”

“There were attempts in the past.”

“That’s what Colonel Ozhogin is for. Pasha did say one thing. He said he had once done something long ago that was really bad and that I wouldn’t love him if I knew. That was the drunkest I ever saw him. He wouldn’t tell me what and he never mentioned it again.”

“Who did know?”

“I think Lev Timofeyev knew. He said no, but I could tell. It was their secret.”

“How they stripped investors of their money?”

“No.” Her voice tightened. “Something awful. He was always worse around May Day. I mean, who cares about May Day anymore?” She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Why don’t you think he killed himself?”

“I don’t think one way or the other; I just haven’t come across a good enough reason for him to. Ivanov was clearly not a man who frightened easily.”

“See, even you admired him.”

“Do you know Leonid Maximov and Nikolai Kuzmitch?”

“Of course. They’re two of our best friends. We have good times together.”

“They’re busy men, I’m sure, but can you think of any way I could talk to them? I could try official channels, but to be honest, they know more officials than I do.”

“No problem. Come to the party.”

“What party?”

“Every year Pasha threw a party out at the dacha. It’s tomorrow. Everyone will be there.”

“Pasha is dead and you’re still having the party?”

“Pasha founded the Blue Sky Charity for children. It depends financially on the party, so everyone knows that Pasha would want the party to go on.”

Arkady had come across Blue Sky during the investigation. Its operating expenses were minute compared to other Ivanov ventures, and he had assumed it was a fraud. “How does this party raise money?”

“You’ll see. I’ll put you on the list, and tomorrow you’ll see everyone who’s anyone in Moscow. But you will have to blend in.”

“I don’t look like a millionaire?”

She shifted, the better to see him. “No, you definitely look like an investigator. I can’t have you stalking around, not good for a party mood. But many people will bring their children. Can you bring a child? You must know a child.”

“I might.”

Arkady turned on the chair’s light for her to write directions in. She did it studiously, pressing hard, and, as soon as she was done, turned off the light.

“I think I’ll stay here by myself for a while. What’s your name again?”

“Renko.”

“No, I mean your name.”

“Arkady.”

She repeated it, seeming to try it out and find it acceptable. As he rose to go, she brushed his hand with hers. “Arkady, I take it back. You do remind me of Pasha a tiny bit.”

“Thank you,” said Arkady. He didn’t ask whether she was referring to the brilliant, gregarious Pasha or the Pasha facedown on the street.

Arkady and Victor had a late dinner at a car-wash café on the highway. Arkady liked the place because it looked like a space station of chrome and glass, with headlights flying by like comets. The food was fast, the beer was German and something worthwhile was being attempted: Victor’s car was being washed. Victor drove a forty-year-old Lada with loose wiring underfoot and a radio wired to the dash, but he could repair it himself with spare parts available in any junkyard, and no self-respecting person would steal it. There was something smug and miserly about Victor when he drove, as if he had figured out one bare-bones sexual position. Among the ranks of Mercedeses, Porsches and BMWs being hosed and buffed, Victor’s Lada was singular.

Victor drank Armenian brandy to maintain his blood sugar. He liked the café because it was popular with the different Mafias. They were Victor’s acquaintances, if not his friends, and he liked to keep track of their comings and goings. “I’ve arrested three generations of the same family. Grandfather, father, son. I feel like Uncle Victor.”

Two identical black Pathfinders showed up and disgorged similar sets of beefy passengers in jogging suits. They glared at each other long enough to maintain dignity before sauntering into the café.

Victor said, “It’s neutral ground because nobody wants his car scratched. That’s their mentality. Your mentality, on the other hand, is even more warped. Making work out of an open-and-shut suicide? I don’t know. Investigators are supposed to just sit on their ass and leave real work to their detectives. They last longer, too.”

“I’ve lasted too long.”

“Apparently. Well, cheer up, I have a little gift for you, something I found under Ivanov’s bed.” Victor placed a mobile phone, a Japanese clamshell model, on the table.

“Why were you under the bed?”

“You have to think like a detective. People place things on the edge of the bed all the time. They drop, and people kick them under the bed and never notice, especially if they’re in a hurry or in a sweat.”

“How did Ozhogin’s crew miss this?”

“Because everything they wanted was in the office.”

Arkady suspected that Victor just liked to look under beds. “Thank you. Have you looked at it yet?”

“I took a peek. Go ahead, open it up.” Victor sat back as if he’d brought bonbons.

The mobile phone’s introductory chime drew no attention from other tables; in a space-age café, a mobile phone was as normal as a knife or fork. Arkady went through the call history to Saturday evening’s outgoing calls to Rina and Bobby Hoffman; the incoming calls were from Hoffman, Rina and Timofeyev.

A little phone, and yet so much information: a wireless message concerning an Ivanov tanker foundering off Spain, and a calendar of meetings, most recently with Prosecutor Zurin, of all people. In the directory were phone numbers not only for Rina, Hoffman, Timofeyev and different NoviRus heads, but also for well-known journalists and theater people, for millionaires whose names Arkady recognized from other investigations, and, most interesting, for Zurin, the mayor, senators and ministers, and the Kremlin itself. Such a phone was a plug into a power grid.

Victor copied the names into a notepad. “What a world these people live in. Here’s a number that gives you the weather in Saint-Tropez. Very nice.” It took two brandies for Victor to finish the list. He looked up and nodded to a truculent circle of people at the next table. In a low voice, he said, “The Medvedev brothers. I’ve arrested their father
and
mother. But I have to admit, I feel comfortable with them. They’re ordinary thugs, not businessmen with investment funds.”

Arkady punched “Messages.”

There was one at 9:33
P.M.
from a Moscow number, and the message did not sound like a businessman’s: “You don’t know who this is, but I’m trying to do you a favor. I’ll call you again. All I’ll say now is, if you stick your dick in someone else’s soup, sooner or later it’s going to get cut off.”