Woman Chased by Crows (12 page)

Much of the room was bare wood floor. Windows met mirrors at one corner. At the other side was a screened changing area, a small upright piano with a
CD
player perched on top, and the sparsely furnished corner where the woman and the cat waited.

“I can make more tea, if you like.”

“No. But thank you,” Stacy said.

“Sit down then. Ask your questions.”

Stacy sat across from her. “I'm sure you went over all this with the Toronto detectives earlier in the week.”

“Yes. The Toothbrush and the Pimple.”

Stacy laughed. “That's them,” she said. “I spoke to Dr. Ruth.”

“I fired her.”

“She didn't break any confidences.”

“That is good to know. Nevertheless . . . Are you leaving?” Stacy thought for a second that the question was directed at her, but the cat was stretching, jumping to the floor. Anya butted her cigarette, then escorted the cat behind the piano. “Nice of you to visit,” she said. The cat took his time. Anya waited patiently until he was on the fire escape, then relocked the window. She looked at Stacy. “The ideal houseguest,” she said. “Stays for an hour, does not steal the silver.”

“The policeman who was murdered Monday night, did you have a name for him?”

“Beautiful hands,” she said. “That was not a name, just an observation. I did not get to know him well enough to give him a name. He was different. You saw him?”

Stacy said, “Not at his best.” The woman's lips tightened for a second. “He was in town because of you.”

“So I have been told,” said Anya. She sat on the piano bench, ran her fingers across the black keys, too lightly to produce notes. “And yet he never came. I am sorry about that.”

“Do you know why he wanted to see you?”

“I expect he would have told me, had he lived long enough.”

“It seems there was another man shot, in Toronto, two nights before. This man had some connection to you as well.” There was a moment of silence. Anya's hand froze in the air above the keyboard. “Your picture was in his wallet.”

She played a minor triad, gave a bitter smile. “A fan perhaps?”

“His name was,” Stacy consulted her notebook, “Nimchuk.” She looked directly at Anya, gauging her reaction. “Viktor Nimchuk.” She saw the woman's shoulders sag, her left hand flattened on the piano keys to produce a dissonant chord that hung in the air, unresolved.

Her voice, when finally she spoke, was a weary whisper. “Then that is the last of them,” she said.

“The last of who?” Stacy asked.

“The little band of smugglers,” Anya said. “There were four. Viktor and Sergei and Vassili and Ludmilla, who were involved with each other for a long time.” She looked up. “And me,” she said. “Sometimes.”

“You?”

“Once in a while I brought something in, took something out. Nothing important.”

“You were a smuggler?”

“No, Detective. I was a dancer.” She hit the keys, both hands, fingers splayed like blunt hammers. A booming major chord echoed for a moment. “I was destined to be a dancer as soon as my mother examined my arches. My mother wanted to dance, but she had flat feet. You know when you apply to the ballet school, the Vaganova, they measure everything. My arches were perfect. In the womb I was stamped.”

“The other four, the smugglers.” Stacy wanted to keep her on the subject.

“In some cultures smuggling is an honourable profession, do you know?”

“What did they smuggle?”

“Out of Russia? Cheap stuff, some fakes, ikons, furs, nothing of historical importance, nothing of great value, a few hundred here, a thousand there. A little more, a little less, depending.”

“And in?”

“Dollars. American dollars. Mostly. It was not uncommon.”

“Then what happened?”

“Viktor got lucky, or he thought so. He stole something very big. He stole it from an even bigger thief.”

“What was it?”

“A big piece, covered in gems. Worth a lot of money, too much money for little gypsy smugglers, but Viktor did not know how much it was worth when he stole it.”

“What happened to it?”

“They broke it into pieces, sold it over the years. It never gave them what they hoped it would.”

“How about you? Did you get any of the jewels?”

Anya spread her arms. “All I have is what you see around you. Some fading photographs, a tea kettle, a rented piano.”

“It's all gone?”

“Viktor had the last of it. If they killed him, they have whatever he had left.”

“If
who
killed him?”

“Who knows? He was dealing with some bad people over the years. He thought he was so clever. Bad people from Montreal, from the United States, receivers of stolen jewels.”

“You have any names, any descriptions, anything you can help me with?”

“I stayed away from him, Detective. As far as I could. I did not want any part of it. I did not want to defect, I was ready to rejoin the Kirov. I was ready to take back the career that was rightfully mine. Because of Viktor I had to run.”

“But why, if you had no part in it?”

“Sometimes the niceties of a situation can be lost on people. You know what I mean? The people Viktor stole from were not nice people. They would not make the distinction.”

The policewoman left her card, asked if Anya had plans to leave the city. Anya thought that was funny, but she didn't laugh. “If I decide to go anywhere, Detective, I will inform you,” she said. “My whereabouts are never secret for long.” After locking the door, she went to the window to see if anyone was taking note of the woman's departure. Nothing. Of course he would not be seen. Being invisible was not hard.
Staying
invisible was the difficult part. Was it not, Viktor?

Ah Viktor. You should have been the first to go. It would have saved so much trouble if you had been killed. During one of your little Montreal excursions perhaps. That might have made things simpler. Or best of all, back in Moscow, the day you bought the suitcase from that junkie friend of yours. If they had caught you right away, none of this would have happened. Caught you and killed you on the spot. Pretty Ludi would still be alive, sewing costumes, fussing over feathers and sequins. And Vassi would still be alive, painting forest scenery, fussing over pretty Ludmilla. And Sergei? What about you, Sergei? Are you out there? Sitting in a parked car, pretending to drink coffee in the café across the street? You have done pretty well for yourself, haven't you?

Viktor said, “Sergei, you can't go back, you will be shot if you go back.” And what did you say, Sergei? You said, “No,
you
will be shot, you little piece of shit. Your life is worth nothing any more. I will tell them what you did, and they will send someone, and they will find you, all of you.”

And they did send someone. Didn't they, Sergei? They sent you.

Orwell's wife never called him at work, except for emergencies, and never simply to chastise him, that was an indulgence she reserved for suppertime, but he had just been severely castigated (unfairly, he was certain) for his part in the latest domestic drama. The wedding was off.

His first emotion had been umbrage. “How can it be
my
fault?”

“I said not to push,” Erika began (he could see her shaking her finger), “but you pushed anyway, you are always pushing.”

That was an exaggeration, he was certain. “I didn't push, I offered,
we
offered, a piece of land for them to build a house on.” He stood, as if to address a courtroom. “Was that a crime?”

“Did you even
ask
your daughter, privately,
first
, if it was such a good idea? No. Not you. You have to stand up at the dinner table and make a big announcement like Orwell the Beneficent that you want Patty and her intended, whose name you can barely remember . . .”

“Gary. Gary. Gary.”

“. . . that you wish to bestow . . .”

“I never used the word
bestow
.”

“. . . upon them a generous parcel of ten acres for their wedding present.”

“Hell's bells, it's better than a waffle iron.” He was starting to get steamed. This attack was most unwarranted.

“That's not a present. That's an obligation.”

“Don't you want her to have it?”

“Now you are being offensive. What
she
wants, not what
you
want.”

“Of course, that goes without saying.”

“The day you go anywhere without saying, I will phone the newspapers.”

With that she had hung up, leaving Orwell staring with unfocused eyes at the aerial map of Newry County on the far wall. From where he stood he was sure he could make out a pulsing red spot where his farmhouse lay.

“Chief?”

“Yes, Dorrie?” he said wearily.

“Detective Crean is here.”

“Oh good.” He rubbed a hand across his face and dome. “Police work. Yes, right, that's what we're here for, isn't it? Get her in here.”

The door opened. “A minute, Chief?”

“I'm all ears. One of them scorched.” He pointed at a chair. “Anything turn up about Delisle's missing piece?”

“Not yet. But a Sergeant Hurst, Peel Division, says the guy who was shot down on the Queensway — Saturday night, not last week — a Viktor Nimchuk, was most likely shot with a .357 Smith.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“But they don't have a good bullet.”

Orwell shook his head. “My my.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, hauling out her notebook. “And that ain't the half of it.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Interviewed the dance teacher. She tells me that Nimchuk was mixed up in some kind of smuggling deal back in '81, when they defected. He stole some jewels in Russia, and people have been trying to get them back ever since.”

“Since
1981
?”

“She says they were pretty famous jewels.”

“They'd have to be, wouldn't they? Thirty years. These jewels still around?”

“According to her they're all gone now. Nimchuk had whatever was left. He was the last one standing.”

“Last of how many?”

“She says four. She wasn't one of them, she said, but she was tarred with the same brush. They had a regular little thing going when they went on tour and once in a while she took part in it.”

“Okay, so back in '81, four dancers . . .”

“They weren't all dancers, Chief.”

“. . . all right, four members of a ballet company, five if you count her, smuggled some jewels into the country . . .”

“A famous necklace or something. They broke it up and sold the individual stones.”

“And Nimchuk was one of them.”

“He was the main guy, the one who did the actual stealing. The others sort of got caught in the net.”

“Who were the others?”

“I've got the names, Chief.” She checked her notebook, pronounced the names carefully. “Ludmilla Dolgushin, Sergei Siziva, Vassili Abramov, Viktor Nimchuk.” She looked up. “They'll be in my report, Chief.”

“Good.”

“I've started a search, see if anything pops up about the other three. She figures they're dead, but she didn't have anything definite — dates, places. They might not have even been using those names. I'll go back at her tomorrow, start pinning her down on specifics.”

“You think she's hiding things?”

“Definitely. And I think she's scared. She's acting like she figures she's next.”

“Why, if the jewels are all gone?”

“Couple of possibles, I guess. The whole thing is a big fairy tale. Or if there aren't any jewels left, it's just payback for whoever was involved . . .”

“Or?”

“Or they
aren't
all gone, there's still some of it lying around somewhere, and they think she has it.”