Wolves Eat Dogs by Martin Cruz Smith Page B

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