Red Ink (5 page)

“Who are you talking about?”

“Shevchenko. A couple of his goons busted in here and hauled me away.”

“Shevchenko? Why?”

“He didn’t like me tipping you off.”

“Are you kidding? He was thrilled. We—”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m serious. We made a deal. He’s giving me an exclusive; and I’m giving him a promotion, so to speak.”

“Chief
Investigator Shevchenko,” Vera intones knowingly. Then, gesturing to the pages on the sofa, she adds, “If that doesn’t do it, nothing will.”

“Rather good, isn’t it?”

“Damned good.” She lets out a long breath and shrugs, baffled. “I don’t get it.”

“The only thing that makes sense is Shevchenko wanted to make sure I know who’s calling the shots.”

“Well, you always said you were a liability I couldn’t afford. I’m starting to think you’re right.”

“He fired you?”

“No. Docked me a couple of days’ pay, though.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I called your apartment, I called the militia, I even called the goddamned KGB.”

“The Security Directorate,” she corrects.

“Whatever. They’ll always be KGB to me.”

“Neither had a record of my arrest, right?”

“Right.”

“They stashed me in the drunk tank.” That explains it. As part of the new commitment to increase personal freedom and change the police state mentality, Moscow’s sobering-up stations
are no longer being run by the militia. Of course, they’ve become the perfect place to confine citizens without any record of their being in custody. “After spending the night watching the scum of the earth barf their brains out, I got a two-hour lecture from Shevchenko about not revealing information to outsiders.”

“I’m still glad you did.”

Her demeanor softens, and she breaks into a satisfied smile. “This is the one, isn’t it, Niko?”

“Uh-huh. I can live off it for a year.”

“You already sold it?!”

I nod emphatically. “A series of follow-ups too.”

“Come on, come on, who?”

“Pravda.”

“Pravda?!”

“Don’t laugh. Sergei is there. They’re paying five hundred thousand.”

“Five hundred?! That’s fantastic.”

“Enough talk,” I say, pointing to a clipping from an old issue of
The New York Times Magazine
that’s pinned to the bulletin board above my desk.

“I know, I know,” Vera says, beating me to it. “ ‘Planning to write is not writing. Outlining a book is not writing. Researching is not writing. Talking to people about what you’re doing, none of that is writing. Writing is writing.’ E. L. Doctorow.”

“You have it memorized.”

Vera’s eyes roll. “A parrot would have little choice around here.”

“Can you say, ‘Make love to me, Nikolai’?” I ask, pulling her into an embrace.

“Maybe.”

“How about, ‘Tear off my clothes, Nikolai. Bwaaak! Tear off my clothes, Nikolai. Bwaaaak! Bwaaaak!’ Can you say that?”

She emits a lusty giggle and kisses me. All of a sudden she breaks it off and glares at me accusingly.

Damn. The vodka. She’s detected the vodka.

“Stolichnaya. How could I say no?”

Her soft eyes narrow and harden like gemstones.

“Sergei wanted to celebrate. I couldn’t insult him. I only had one.”

“That’s one too many.”

“Come on, Vera, I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah?” she challenges seductively, grinding her pelvis against mine. “I’ll be the judge of that.” She buries her hands in my hair, spins me around, and pushes me down on the bed, her mouth devouring mine, her hands tearing at my clothes. Thank God Sergei insisted the kid do the rewrite. Soon, passion soaring, we’re naked and tangled in the bedding like writhing snakes. It doesn’t get much better than this. No, life has never been so good. Never.

Hours later, I’ve no idea how many, I awaken to the strong smell of coffee and a rustling sound. My hand searches the bed for Vera to no avail. I push up onto an elbow, squinting at the daylight coming through the curtains. “Vera?”

No reply.

I finally locate her in a chair by the window. She’s fully dressed and is frantically turning the pages of a newspaper. “Vera? Vera, what the hell are you doing?”

“It’s not here.”

“What?”

“Pravda.
I couldn’t wait for the mail. I bought a copy at the newsstand. I can’t find it. It’s not on the front page, not even below the fold.”

“It has to be.” I stumble out of bed and tear the paper from her hands—as if looking for it myself, as if willing the article to be there will make it so. But it isn’t. Not on the front page, not opposite the editorial page, not anywhere that an important story would be found. Finally, near the bottom of a column of obituaries, I find a small headline: V. I. VORONTSOV KILLED BY THIEF.

“Killed By Thief?!” I exclaim, my voice ringing with disbelief. “By M. I. Drevnya?!”

“Who?”

“The wiseass kid who did the rewrite!” I explode, throwing the newspaper across the room in disgust.

5

D
revnya is at his desk, typing furiously as I charge across the newsroom brandishing the paper. “What the fuck is this?!”

He recoils and swivels in his chair to face me. “Take it easy, Katkov, take it easy, okay?”

“Soon as you explain what happened to my story!”

He retreats, propelling the chair backward with his feet, then stands to confront me. “Look, I can understand why you’re pissed off, but—”

“Pissed off?! Pissed off is hardly—”

“Hey, hey?!” Sergei’s voice booms. He weaves between the desks and pushes his way through the group that encircles us. “What the hell’s going on here?”

“Good question!”

“Ask him,” the kid counters, jabbing a finger at my chest. “He’s the one who’s going bonkers!”

“You little shit!” I lunge for him, but Sergei steps between us and burns me with a look. “Let’s do this in my office.”

I’m seething, the veins in my neck throbbing like fire hoses. I take a moment to settle, then nod grudgingly and follow after him.

Sergei closes the door and gathers his thoughts. Then like
a teacher forced to reprimand a prize student, he says, “I’m disappointed in you, Nikolai. You’re better than this.”

“The feeling’s mutual. You should have called me.”

“I just did.”

“Bullshit!”

“I spoke to Vera. You can ask her. It’s barely eight-thirty. You expect me to wake you in the middle of the night? ‘Hi, Nikolai, I have some bad news.’”

“What news?! Vorontsov was murdered to keep the lid on a privatization scandal. Where’d this nonsense about a robbery come from?!”

“Look, Niko, you’re going to have to accept that this story isn’t what you thought.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“The kid has initiative. Yesterday afternoon, he—”

“That’s a polite word for it!”

“Yesterday afternoon,” Sergei resumes evenly, “before starting his rewrite, he called Vorontsov’s daughter to check some facts, but—”

“He wasn’t supposed to check facts! He was going to ‘Westernize’ my syntax! Remember?!”

“Yes, Nikolai, of course I do,” he says, measuring his words as if dealing with a surly toddler. “Now, hear me out, will you?”

I splay my hands and drop into the chair opposite his desk with a sullen nod.

“Thank you. When Drevnya called Mrs. Churkin, she was leaving for Militia Headquarters and couldn’t talk. But the kid has some connections there or something so he arranged to meet her. Needless to say, identifying her father’s body was upsetting. Drevnya comforted her and, shrewd journalist that he is, just happened to be at her side when she claimed Vorontsov’s personal effects and discovered something was missing.”

“Come on. I was at the crime scene. Nothing was missing. His billfold, his watch, his—”

“I know—I know,” Sergei interrupts.

“Then why does the fucking obit say a thief stole his valuables?!”

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, deciding. “That was a cover.”

“A cover?!” I exclaim, jumping to my feet. “A cover for what?”

“For what was actually stolen.”

“What is this, some sort of guessing game? Come on, goddammit, what was stolen?”

“I don’t know,” he replies, averting his eyes.

“You’re insulting my intelligence, Sergei, not to mention your own. If the kid was with her, he knows what was missing.”

His head bobs sheepishly, then with a sigh, he concedes, “You’re right. Shevchenko asked us to withhold it. You know, to weed out the nuts who always confess to these things.”

“You can tell
me,
for Chrissakes.”

“Right now, I wouldn’t trust you with the time of day. Besides, I told you, I’ve no interest in street crime. I ran the obit, and I’m done with it. You’ll have to talk to Shevchenko.”

“Oh, I plan to, but I’m talking to you now. We had an agreement, Sergei. It’s my story, and—”

“No. No, Nikolai. We didn’t run your story. The kid dug out the facts, it fell apart, and I spiked it.”

“You should’ve consulted me.”

“I didn’t think you’d want your by-line on an obit.”

“Depends on whose it is.”

“That a threat?”

“Take it any way you want.”

He stares at me, hands on hips, then shakes his head in dismay. “You don’t know when someone’s trying to do you a favor.”

“I know when I’m being screwed.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“You should be.”

I charge out of the office loaded for bear—a bear named Shevchenko. Militia Headquarters is less than a mile from here as the crow flies; but the railroad tracks and Ring Road triple the distance. Yesterday’s icy drizzle has turned into stinging sleet. There isn’t a cab in sight. I hunch down into my parka and head south toward Uspenskiy, a narrow street behind the Hotel Minsk that winds east toward Petrovka.

About a half hour later, I’m at No. 38. I’m not sure whether it’s because Shevchenko put my name on the list of approved visitors, or the red-cheeked sentry is anxious to return to his
shack, but I’m cleared through the gate without incident. A sergeant at the desk in the lobby explains Shevchenko isn’t in yet and directs me to a waiting area.

I shake the sleet from my parka, light a cigarette, and begin pacing. The revolving door spits out a steady stream of shivering employees. I’m grinding my fifth Ducat into the terrazzo when Shevchenko arrives. He spots me out of the corner of his eye and makes a beeline for the corridor that leads to the elevators.

“Investigator Shevchenko?!” I call out, vaulting a low partition to intercept him.

“Katkov, please.”

“I thought we had a deal?!” I protest, purposely raising my voice. Everyone within earshot reacts. He stops and looks around uncomfortably. “Well?!” I prompt in a tense whisper.

“Had
is the operative word,” he replies through clenched teeth, directing me into an anteroom off the lobby. “I had something at stake too, remember?”

“Until somebody promised you more!”

“Not true. I’m as pissed off as you are, Katkov. This was the best shot at chief I’ve ever had.” He slaps his briefcase on the table and goes about removing his trench coat.

“Come on. Who got to you?”

“Nobody.
This reporter from
Pravda
was here when Vorontsov’s daughter showed up to ID her father. He—”

“I know. His name’s Drevnya. You should have told him to take a hike!”

“And violate his rights?!” Shevchenko exclaims, pretending he’s shocked. “Really, you’re the last person I’d expect to suggest that. Of course, there was a time I could’ve locked him up and thrown away the key. But times have changed. Haven’t they?”

“I don’t think Vera Fedorenko would agree. Do you?!”

“Fedorenko . . . Fedorenko,” he repeats, needling me. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Was there something else you—”

“Pravda
’s obit said Vorontsov’s valuables were stolen. You and I both know they weren’t. Now, I want to know, what
was?”

His jaw sets and his eyes sharpen with a warning. “Off the record.”

An exasperated groan comes from deep inside me. “Off the record.”

“His medals. He was killed for his medals.”

“His medals?”

“Yes, they’re solid gold, highly prestigious, and worth a small fortune on the black market. Somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty million rubles. The killer didn’t want to tear them from Vorontsov’s jacket and risk damaging them. So he—”

“He?!”

“Or she,” he concedes indulgently, “dragged the body behind the wall, where, without risk of being seen, they could be removed with care. That piece fits rather neatly now, wouldn’t you say?”

“What about the time discrepancy? That fits rather neatly now, too?”

“Perfectly. Vorontsov didn’t spend an hour or two shopping, because he didn’t have to take a number and wait in a queue. He bypassed it completely because he was wearing the right medals.”

“Come on, that protocol crap went out with the
apparatchiks.
Nobody gives a damn about medals anymore.”

“I beg to differ. You’re familiar with the names Krichevsky, Komar, and Usov?”

“The poor bastards who were killed in Red Square, protesting the coup. Yes, I am. I was there. Where were you? Cheering on the conspirators?”

“The point is, your buddy Boris-don’t-call-me-an-apparatchik-Yeltsin—free-marketeer and champion of democracy, mind you—awarded the Hero of the Soviet Union to each of them posthumously.”

“An acceptable lapse in judgment.”

“That was no lapse, Katkov. This society has been medal-crazy since czarist times. Like it or not, the damn things are part of our culture. We award them for everything from having babies, to bravery in combat, to growing cabbage; and we wear them like oil-rich Arabs festooned in gaudy jewelry. You think the new order is going to change that?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Don’t be naive. Last week I saw a picture in a Western magazine of Soviet Jews who emigrated to Israel. Dozens of them. All diehard refuseniks who couldn’t wait to forsake their country
for a miserable patch of desert. Yet every last one was proudly wearing his medals.
Soviet
medals.”

“Sounds to me like you have a little problem with Jews, Mr. Investigator.”

“Katkov.”

“Marx was a Jew. Did you know that?”

“Yes,” he hisses impatiently, baring tobacco-stained teeth.

“Not all of us want to live in Israel, believe me. This Jew, for one, is going to stay right here and make your life miserable.”

“Don’t do this, Katkov. Don’t make it personal.”

“You’re the one who’s making it personal. You want me to accept that there’s no political angle here just because you say so?”

“No. Because the facts don’t support it.”

“You’re saying they support that some thug just happened to see a guy with a chest covered with satin and brass leave his lodge hall? Followed him? Shot him? And stole his medals?”

“Yes, I am. A tipsy guy, by the way.” Shevchenko slips a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Preliminary toxicology report,” he says as if holding the Communist Manifesto. “Vorontsov’s blood alcohol level was point one three. He was legally intoxicated.”

“So is most of Moscow at that hour.”

“It made him an easy target.”

“If he was wearing his medals. Just because his daughter said so doesn’t mean he was.”

“I sure hope you’re challenging me to prove it.”

“Bet your ass.”

Shevchenko smirks, scoops up his things, and blows out of the anteroom. I follow, as he walks briskly to the end of the corridor and down a staircase. The pungent odors of urine and disinfectant intensify with each step. They come from a dank warren of cells and caverns in the basement, where prisoners and evidence are stored.

In the latter section, boxes, envelopes, folders, and large individually tagged items are stuffed onto rows of shelves behind wire-mesh fencing. Shevchenko fills out a requisition form and slips it to a clerk. The dour fellow fetches a large paper sack, which he exchanges for Shevchenko’s initials. The investigator drops it on one of the tables and ceremoniously removes Vorontsov’s blood-spattered sport coat.

“I thought his daughter claimed his things?”

“She did. That’s how we know about the medals. She took one look at this and asked what we’d done with them. I’d no choice but to retain it.”

“Because it proves he was wearing them.”

Shevchenko nods slyly and pushes the coat toward me. “See for yourself.”

The fabric is a heavily textured wool. I give the area next to the lapels a careful once-over. There are no impressions, no fading, no pinholes, tears, or marks, nothing to indicate there was ever one medal affixed to it, let alone a chestful. “Sorry. I don’t get it.”

Shevchenko opens a drawer where examining tools are stored and removes a magnifying glass. “Try the lining.”

I turn the jacket inside out and slowly move the lens over the imitation silk, zeroing in on the area behind the breast pocket. And there, puckering the fibers in neat rows, are dozens of pinholes.

“See them?” Shevchenko prompts.

I look up and nod glumly.

“According to his daughter, he was the proud holder of three Heroes of the Soviet Union, two Orders of the Red Banner, the Order of Lenin, and enough secondary military and civilian decorations to adorn half the members of Parliament.”

I’m beginning to get a hollow feeling when something dawns on me. “Hold it. That still doesn’t prove Vorontsov was wearing the medals when he was killed. They could’ve been removed ages ago.”

“Good, Katkov. Very good. That was
my
question. And Mrs. Churkin had the answer. It’s a new coat. As a matter of fact, she helped her father transfer the medals from another a few days before.”

The hollowness returns with devastating impact. Homicide not withstanding, a billion-dollar government scandal has turned into a two-bit robbery. The lead story, the series of follow-ups, the wire service sales, the five-hundred-thousand-ruble fee, the professional satisfaction—all blown away. But as the senior investigator would say, there’s still one piece that doesn’t fit. “What about those documents?

“Vorontsov’s?”

“Uh-huh. The Committee for State Property. Something’s going on.”

Shevchenko begins folding the coat. “Undoubtedly. But you’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“What about your theory that he was hit because he was going to blow the whistle on someone?”

“I was wrong.”

“You were right, dammit. You said you thought he was a watchdog, and he was.”

“True,” he says, preening. “But it’s not relevant to my case. The fact remains that Vorontsov was wearing his medals when he left the house and wasn’t when he was found. My report will state: Crime, homicide. Weapon, nine-millimeter Stechkina. Motive, robbery. Have I made myself clear?”

“What’s clear is those documents should be turned over to the guys who handle this kind of stuff.”

He burns me with a look and shoves the folded sport coat into the evidence bag.

“Come on, I know there’s a department here that—”

“Look, Katkov,” he interrupts, ignoring the suggestion, “despite my fondness for the old guard, I’m not going to bring charges against the new one, especially against the ministry that employs me, or against the CSP’s privatization program, which, I’m man enough to admit”—he pauses, barely able to say it—“might,
might,
be the key to pulling our economic chestnuts out of the fire. Are you?”