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 naiveté 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
"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 naiveté 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
Similar Books
