Metronome, The (11 page)

Who can I talk to who may have an insight into my father’s work? I search through my wallet, find the card of the “very interested” Evgeny Zorkin. It’s 8:45 p.m. here, so before 8 a.m. in St. Petersburg; he might still be asleep. I dial the number.

It rings and rings, and then a sleepy and unhappy voice comes on:

“Allo?”

“Mr. Zorkin? This is Pavel Rostin.”

The voice changes, it now oozes a delight at being woken up. “Pavel Vladimirovich, so nice to hear from you! Have you given any thought to our conversation?”

“Yes, I have. But I do have a small favor to ask.”

“Please, anything.”

“Do you remember the old man with a cane at my father’s burial? His name was Anton.”

The voice is now less sure about the favor. “No, I am afraid I don’t remember or know the gentleman.”

“Can you find him for me?”

“Pavel Vladimirovich, I can greatly expedite the transaction, I have wonderful connections in the City Hall…”

“Mr. Zorkin, at this time I don’t need to expedite the transaction, I need to find that old man.”

“How would I do that?”

“You told me, you are a resourceful man. I promise to negotiate exclusively with you at this time. Do you want to buy the apartment or not?”

Half a world away, I can sense fear and greed fighting within Evgeny Zorkin. The fear of getting involved in something dangerous, the greed of the whole third floor of a Malaya Sadovaya building being his. “All right, Pavel Vladimirovich, I will look for him. Should I call you back on this number?”

As I expected, greed wins out. “Yes, please.”

“You understand, I can’t promise anything.”

I hang up without responding, to make him think that the old man is his key to the apartment. I have no idea if this is a complete wild goose chase; the old man knew my father, and Vakunin prevented him from talking to me. That’s a sufficient reason to find him.

I take a slow walk back to the hotel. I like the names of the streets: Anacapa, Canon Perdido, De La Guerra. It’s a slow Monday night, the streets off the main drag are empty. I pause at a light to cross the street, and my brain suddenly registers a scary quiet. Scary because I just heard steps, and they abruptly stopped. I take a quick look behind me; there is no one there. I start walking again, and the steps resume. I turn to my left to cross in the other direction and steal a glance. I see a figure in the shadow on the opposite side. A knot forms in my stomach, and I hurry back to the hotel while listening intently. I hear steps, but they don’t come closer. When I get to my room, I lock and latch the door. I need a few minutes to regain normal breathing.

Tuesday, June 13

When I come out of my room in the morning, I scan the street. There are people out, but nobody seems to be watching me. I am not sure whether someone was following me last night or if I was just being paranoid, but I still tell Rozen about this.

I’ve never been to a prison, not even as a visitor. The ugly building announces “United States Penitentiary” in giant letters, as if someone can be mistaken into thinking it’s a normal residence. We are taken to a visiting area. Along the way, Sal Rozen informed me that Jeff Kron is lucky to be here in a medium security facility, only because they have a “special housing unit.”

Having just met someone, people often say afterwards “He was not what I imagined.” Well, Jeff Kron is pretty much what I imagined: tall, thin, blond, looking unsure and scared. He appears confused when a guard escorts him in and points to me, but then he sees Rozen and smiles.

“This is not a regular visiting day, so I was wondering who came to see me,” he says. “I am glad it’s you, Detective Rozen.”

Kron looks at me expectantly, Rozen makes an introduction. “Jeff Kron – Pavel Rostin.”

“Rostin? You are, you are…”

“He is the son of Vladimir Rostin, the man you saw last year,” Rozen finishes for him.

“Oh, wow! How is he?”

“I am afraid he is dead,” says Rozen, without going into details.

Kron exhales, puts his right hand on his heart, tears well up. “I am so sorry.”

“Jeff, I know you’ve done it many times before, but please tell Mr. Rostin what you were doing the night that Mr. Brockton and Ms. Streltsova were killed?”

Kron swallows hard, continues in a soft voice. “I was outside of their property. I just wanted him to see the picture of my dad, to know what he’d done, to feel a little bit of what we felt…I don’t know why, but I was obsessing to know if he cared even a little bit about those he ruined. I moved to Santa Barbara a month before, worked in a fast food place, gathering courage to talk to him. I was coming to the place for three weeks; a few times I would park my car and walk around.”

“And that evening?”

“I saw the other guy leave, the tall, strong one. I figured that was my chance. I climbed over the fence, went to the door, and rang a bell. There was no answer, and I pushed the door open. I took a few steps inside, and then on the right, in the kitchen, I saw a big dark spot on the floor. I went toward it, and I saw a woman’s leg.”

Kron stopped, hesitated. Rozen made a hand movement, encouraging him to continue.

“I saw a movement out of the corner of my eye, I tried to turn but someone grabbed me from behind, squeezed my neck, and everything went dark. When I came to, I was lying on the floor between two bodies, a knife in my hand. I dropped the knife, ran out of there, climbed over the fence, got into my car and drove down the hill. There were two police cars driving up, and then another one at the bottom stopped me.”

“Why did you have a gun on you?” asked Rozen.

“I would have been too scared to go there otherwise. I just wanted him to see my father’s picture…”

When we left, I asked Rozen, “Did he have his father’s picture?”

“Yes, it was in his pocket.”

“Who triggered the alarm?”

“We don’t know, it was never explained. Hey, it’s almost noon, and there is a great Mexican restaurant on the way; how about some lunch?”

We’ve come to a very casual taqueria, with predominantly Latino faces and everyone speaking Spanish. As we walk in, the only blond woman in the place waves to us, “Sal!”

Rozen and the woman hug each other, then Rozen introduces me:

“Melissa Korn – Pavel Rostin.”

“You are…” we both exclaim in unison, and Rozen enjoys the effect.

“Yes, Melissa is Jeff’s sister, and Pavel is the son of Vladimir Rostin.”

“I have not met your father, but Sal told me about him,” says Melissa. She is older than Jeff, I guess in her late 20’s, with a pretty but severe face. Melissa is the only one in this place dressed in business attire.

“How is your dad?” she asks.

“He is dead,” I say.

“He may have been killed,” says Rozen.

Melissa covers her face, breathes heavily and almost falls but for Rozen’s supporting arm.

We sit down.

“How many must die?” Melissa now has her hands in her lap and sways back and forth, tears streaming down her face.

I try to be objective. “We don’t know if there is a connection here. I am just trying to retrace my father’s steps.”

She shakes her head, not dissuaded.

Rozen orders us lunch. While we eat, I find out that Melissa is a lawyer. Last year she finished law school in Chicago and moved to Lompoc to be near her brother because “I am all he has” and because he needed “an attorney that cares.” Their mother outlived their father by barely a year, Melissa and Jeff were the only ones left from the family. She is doing legal paperwork for local wineries (“It’s not much of a business, but I get free wine”) and sees Jeff twice a week, the maximum allowed. Melissa is, of course, completely convinced of her brother’s innocence. She rattles all the reasons why her brother did not do it, I heard them all except for one: the camera.

Rozen nods solemnly. “Yes, I forgot to mention the camera. The house had a number of security cameras, and the one in front shows Jeff coming in and then running away. It does not show anyone else. But we found the camera trained on the rear door stuck in a position that does not show the actual entrance.”

“Why was that?”

“Don’t know. Could have been a malfunction with suspicious timing.”

“It was not a malfunction,” protests Melissa. “Someone disabled the security camera and walked in through the back door.” She turns to me. “I am so sorry about your dad. I believe the answer to this murder is in Russia. Your dad may have found it and was killed.”

I don’t bother correcting her; I don’t know if my father was killed or took his own life.

She gives me her card as we leave. “If you find something to help in my brother’s defense, please let me know. But, most of all, please be careful. I don’t want any more people to die.”

In the car, I turn to Rozen. “Why did you bring me to see them?”

“Your father came here to meet him. He believed, like I do, that it’s important to see the accused.”

“And his sister?”

“I try to see her when I come here. And I thought it was important for her to know that someone was possibly killed for investigating this case.”

“You really believe Kron is innocent?”

He drives for a couple of minutes without answering then says, “Yes, I do. Unfortunately, I can’t prove it. Most of the people we convict are guilty as hell. But when you put away a person and you don’t believe he is guilty…it’s hard to sleep at night.”

I change the subject. “Is it difficult to make someone unconscious by pressing on his neck?”

“Not for a well-trained person. You cut off the blood flow without cutting off the oxygen. Police used to apply chokehold; it’s not as popular now because of the risks. But if you don’t expect it, a strong, practiced person that approaches you from behind will put your lights out in seconds.”

We drive the rest of the way in silence. As Rozen drops me off, he leans out the window and hands me a manila envelope:

“This is a copy of the papers that were found in a book on Streltsova’s nightstand. She must have been reading and marking them.”

“Did you give them to my father?”

“Yes. Interesting that her computer was gone and we could not find any of her working papers, but for these few pages. It’s like someone carefully removed her work, but missed what was stuck into a book. And Kron did not have any of Streltsova’s materials. I think Melissa is right, the answer is in Russia. Be careful. Don’t look around, but there is an unmarked car with two detectives across the street. I was keeping an eye on the rearview mirror and noticed the same van appear behind us a few times. The detectives will watch you drive off and see if anyone follows.”

As I retrieve my things and the rental car from the hotel, my Blackberry rings. It’s Zorkin. “Pavel Vladimirovich, I found the man! His name is Anton Rimsky; he used to work with your dad.”

“Great, let me write down his number.”

“Unfortunately, he does not have a phone. Probably living off a state pension, does not have the money.”

“How I am going to contact him then?”

“I have his address, you can come see him. Or write to him.”

I know Zorkin’s vulnerability, the power of his greed, so I go for the throat. “Look, Mr. Zorkin, I am half a world away at the moment. I told you I need to talk to this man.”

“You said you needed me to find him,” whines Zorkin, “and I did.”

“So tomorrow you go to Anton Rimsky, bring your phone with you, call me and hand the phone to him.”

“I have a very busy day tomorrow,” complains Zorkin in a defeated voice.

I add one last kick. “And remember the eleven hour time difference.”

I call Jennifer from the car.

“Sweetheart, it’s dad. Is it OK if I come see you and Simon later today?”

She squeals in delight, “Yes, yes, this is great!”

“Let me talk to mom.”

“I’ll let her know.” Poor Jennifer is afraid that Karen will block my visit.

“No, sweetheart, it’s for me to let her know.”

“OK,” Jennifer sighs. “I’ll go look for her.”

I hear voices in the background, then Karen comes on. “You are going to just show up without bothering to let me know even a day in advance? You are such an ass.”

“Karen, I am sorry, I am in California on business, I did not know whether I’d be able to visit. I am not going to inconvenience you or your parents. I will stay in a hotel somewhere nearby, I’ll come take Simon and Jennifer to dinner tonight and perhaps breakfast tomorrow.”

“We have guests and dinner plans tonight,” Karen informs me, “you can’t take the kids.”

“I want to see my kids!” I grip the wheel so hard, the car swerves and I am hit with a horn blast from the car in the next lane.

“Well, then you should have…” Muffled conversation in the background, then Karen comes back on. “All right, my dad says you should come and stay here.”

I am dumbfounded; the man hates my guts. Let me correct that, he hates failure. He liked me well enough in the beginning, when the reflection of Karen’s and mine notoriety was good for the new congressman. Now he is afraid that my problems will somehow be used against him during the upcoming election.

“You are coming for one night only, right?” confirms Karen.

My Blackberry phone rings again. It’s Rozen. “You were not mistaken, someone was trying to keep you company.”

“Who?”

“It’s a local private investigator. He pulled from the curb just after you drove off. The detectives followed him until the next exit on the 101 freeway, then brought him in. He usually does medical disability cases, stakes out people that cheat insurance companies. Yesterday, in the late afternoon, he received a call from someone offering him a thousand a day to follow you and report on your movements. Soon after, a messenger delivered an envelope with payment for two days, your picture, and the message that you were likely to be at the police department. He’s been following you since.”

“So who hired him?”

“He does not know. He is not exactly a selective type. We are trying to find the delivery person, but it does not look promising.”

By the time I get to L.A., it’s past three and the traffic has built up. I resign myself to a slow slog. Gas pedal, brake pedal, gas pedal, brake pedal…

January 1986. The country has a new leader, Mikhail Gorbachev. He just met with Ronald Reagan; a smell of détente is in the air. A group of American students on their winter break come to visit Moscow and the Moscow State University. A few of us, the supposedly more reliable and presentable ones, are chosen to go meet with the Americans. I often wondered if whoever qualified me for this meeting has been demoted later. But one can’t blame him or her; not only was I a good student with no blemishes on my record, I spoke decent English and had just defended my doctoral dissertation. Perhaps the idea was to impress the Americans with our brain power. Not wanting to rely on the intellect alone, I went to a
banya
the night before and sweated all the dirt and smells out of my pours.

We meet in a designated room of the Lenin’s Library; the organizer must have thought that choosing a library would give the whole affair some kind of intellectual undertone. The meeting starts awkwardly, with introductions and forced conversations. Turns out “the others” don’t have horns or hoofs and seem to be very similar human beings. There are a dozen of us and perhaps ten Americans. I am introduced as “one of our brilliant young physicists.” At that, two pretty American girls smile at me. I look aside in embarrassment, then steal a glance at the girls and suddenly lock eyes with one of them. Everything freezes for a second. I feel the jolt of recollection, as if I have met her before, although this is of course utterly impossible. Her expression turns serious, smile disappears. My face is hot, I must be turning crimson. I feel like everyone is staring at me, so I stand up, mumble something and escape. Now everyone is really staring. In the restroom, I wash my face with cold water and wait for palpitations to subside.