Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith

‘homicide.’ Especially when there isn’t the slightest evidence that there was one. Unless you have some evidence you’d like to share with me?”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so. And as for your financial investigation of NoviRus, didn’t the fact that Zurin chose you as investigator suggest to you that he wasn’t serious?”
    “It crossed my mind.”
    “It’s laughable. A pair of worn-out criminal detectives against an army of financial wizards.”
    “It doesn’t sound fair.”
    “Now that Pasha is dead, it’s time to let go. Call it a draw if you want. Pasha Ivanov came to a sorry end. Why? I don’t know. It’s a great loss. However, he never asked for any increase in security. I interviewed the building staff. There was no breach.” Ozhogin leaned closer, a hammer taking aim on a nail, Arkady thought. “If there was no breach in security, then there’s nothing to investigate. Is that clear enough for you?”
    “There was salt—”
    “I heard about the salt. What sort of attack is that? The salt is an indication of a mental breakdown, pure and simple.”
    “Unless there was a breach.”
    “I just told you there wasn’t.”
    “That’s what investigations are for.”
    “Are you saying there was a breach?”
    “It’s possible. Ivanov died under strange circumstances.”
    Ozhogin edged closer. “Are you suggesting that NoviRus Security was, to any degree, responsible for Ivanov’s death?”
    Arkady picked his words carefully. “Building security wasn’t all that sophisticated. No card swipes or voice or palm ID, just codes, nothing like the security at the offices here. And a skeleton crew on weekends.”
    “Because Ivanov moved into an apartment meant for his friend Rina. She designed it. He didn’t want any changes. Nevertheless, we staffed the building with our men, put in unobtrusive keypads, fed the surveillance cameras to our own monitors here at NoviRus Security and, any hour he was home, parked a security team in front. There was nothing more we could do. Besides, Pasha never mentioned a threat.”
    “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