Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart

die?”
    â€œIt’s unclear.”
    â€œWhere did she die?”
    â€œOn top of Platte Clove. She either fell, jumped, or was pushed from a cliff.”
    He went into the kitchen, opened a cabinet, took out a bottle of vodka, poured himself a glass. He downed it in one swallow, clenched his jaw. Then he hurled the glass across the room, where it shattered against a wall. We stood in silence. He went to the large table and lit a candle, then he put on one of Natasha’s CDs. Her voice filled the room, he smiled at me, sad and sweet, his eyes filled with tears. If this was acting, he was good at it.
    â€œI cannot believe this,” he said.
    â€œHow long have you known her?” I asked.
    â€œFor a few months. She is a very special woman. … Now she is gone.”
    â€œWhen did you last see her?”
    â€œFriday night.”
    I waited for him to say more, knowing from my years in practice that many people felt a need to fill a silence, and the words that gushed out were often deeply revealing. Pavel felt no such need.
    â€œHow did she seem on Friday night?” I asked.
    â€œBeautiful. We went for a night walk and then made love.”
    â€œShe didn’t seem … frightened at all?”
    â€œShe had much on her mind, she was a complicated woman, she kept a part of herself secret from me. She wanted to move to Los Angeles, I wanted her to stay.”
    â€œHaven’t you proposed to Octavia?”
    â€œYou ask a lot of questions.”
    â€œI’m the curious type.”
    â€œSometimes it is better not to know. Keeps you out of trouble.”
    â€œDid you meet Natasha’s family?”
    â€œOne time. At a party at her parents’ house.”
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œIt made Natasha very angry.”
    â€œDid something happen?”
    His cellphone rang; he looked at the incoming number and didn’t answer. “Natasha is dead and all you do is ask more questions.” He moved to the top of the stairs. “I need to be alone now.”
    â€œI’m sure we’ll meet again,” I said as I passed him on my way out.

fifteen
    My trip to Stone Ridge had yielded more questions than answers and my mind was clenched and swirling at the same time. I couldn’t really get a bead on Pavel, he didn’t seem particularly surprised that Natasha was dead, but at the same time throwing that glass seemed like an act of spontaneous rage at the world. Was he devious or just playing the only card he had? As for Octavia, how far could her passion and jealousy have taken her? I needed a little stress-reducing recreation—thankfully it was still early enough to get up to Zack’s.
    I sped up to West Sawyerville, where Zack’s dollhouse of a cabin sat beside the rushing Plattekill, hard under the eastern escarpment of the Catskills. I found him out in the yard puttering around, as per usual; wearing nothing but crocs and a pair of funky cargo shorts, also as per usual. Every time I saw Zack in this almost-naked state my heart went pitter-pat (okay, it wasn’t my heart).
    â€œThere she is, my little darlin’, prettiest flower in all the garden. You look tired, baby girl. Here, have a sip, this will fix you right up.”
    He handed me his Zackwacker, which was basically a whole lot of tequila blendered up with whatever fresh (or frozen) (or canned) fruit he had in the kitchen. It was a delicious and wickedly potent concoction, and it went down easy, especially tonight. I sat on one of the bluestone benches he’d built around the property and looked up at the mountains, glowing in the twilight. In theory this was one of those mellow moments I’d moved upstate to savor, my new laid-back life. In reality my little internal combustion engine was firing on all pistons and the hum sounded a lot like Natasha-Natasha-Natasha .
    We went inside and while he cooked, I sat at the kitchen table and filled him in on my day down in Stone