Tatiana: An Arkady Renko Novel (Arkady Renko Novels) (13 page)

“You figure it out, you’re the investigator. I’ll only say this: Tatiana Petrovna was a fighter. She never jumped from any balcony.”

“It doesn’t matter. There’s no case and no body.”

“I know. People say you’re crazy.” Abdul threw punches in the air. “They really do. They say you’re nuts. I saw you at Grisha’s funeral giving his son, Alexi, a tough time. And you don’t carry a gun? That’s lunatic.”

“There’s no case.”

“If you care, there’s always a case. Hey, I want your opinion. I have a second DVD.”

“Another?”

“Tatiana thought the video needed, maybe, a little balance. To expand my base, you know.” He nodded toward the door. “My friends are my friends but artistically, they’re bricks.”

“Go ahead.” Why not another bath of testosterone? Arkady thought. So far as he could tell, the only information that Abdul had provided was an insinuation that he had slept with Tatiana, a boast she was too dead to deny.

It was the same DVD with the same combination of vanity and gore. Identical, except for a closing shot of Abdul looking directly at the camera as a tear coursed down his cheek.

“Empathy,” Abdul said.

“By the ton.”

•  •  •

Shagelman did a good imitation of a cretin. His shirt and suit were a size too small, so that his tattoos seemed to creep out of his cuffs. His smile was a simpleton’s grin, lit by two gold teeth. He said virtually nothing. At Mafia councils, he was mute. Later, he would go home to the kitchen of his apartment and report every word to his wife, Valentina, while she sharpened her knives and sliced meat, peppers and onions for shish kebab. Shagelman always cried when she cut the onions.

Valentina did not approve of Tatiana. “A woman’s place is in the home, listening to a husband, helping him, guiding him, not drawing attention to herself.”

Without drawing attention to herself, Valentina had built a fortune out of public construction done in her husband’s name.

She insisted on serving Arkady and her husband black tea and cookies in the living room that was a nest of tapestries and Persian rugs. With her hair drawn in a bun she looked like a tea cozy herself.

“I can’t say I’m sorry that Tatiana Petrovna has passed. She always had good things to say about the Chechens and bad things to say about Russia. It’s a terrible thing to say, but good riddance.”

“Do you think someone might have actually felt the same and harmed her?”

“I’m only saying that Tatiana Petrovna was a traitor and a whore.”

Isaac Shagelman kept his gaze down and out of trouble.

Valentina stirred strawberry jam into her tea. “Don’t you think Grisha Grigorenko had a dignified funeral service?”

Well, yes, Arkady thought. Except for the bullet hole in the back of his head. “Were Grisha and Tatiana friends?”

The question took Valentina by surprise.

“People said so. I don’t pay attention to such rumors. Grisha liked to take chances. He took up waterskiing. I told him, waterskiing is for grandchildren. Him and his boat!”

“What was it called?”

“
Natalya Goncharova.
Such a boat.”

On a side table, Arkady noticed a short stack of glossy calendars from something called the Curonian Bank. He had never heard of it but the Shagelmans were known for setting up banks that were little more than slick catalogs and shell games. The cover photo was of a pelican swallowing a fish.

“A pretty picture.” He picked up a calendar.

“Take one, please.”

“Is there any connection to Curonian Renaissance, the real estate developer?”

“Hmm.” Valentina found something at the bottom of her cup to stir.

“Wasn’t Curonian Renaissance trying to develop the building where Tatiana Petrovna lived?”

“I suppose so.”

“Wasn’t she holding up the project?”

“You know, people like Tatiana Petrovna act as if
gentrification
is a dirty word. We are going to build a beautiful shopping mall with over a hundred stores. Chips fly when you’re chopping wood.”

“That’s what everybody tells me,” Arkady said.

•  •  •

Ivan “Ape” Beledon was proud of living in a dacha that had once been a country residence of the KGB. No rustic cabin this, instead a spa with a pool, tennis court, masseur, mud bath, billiard table, cigar humidor and bodyguards indoors and out.

Ape Beledon and Arkady sat by the tennis court. The Mafia chief had stripped to swim trunks and showed off spindly arms and a back of thick hairs that wafted in the breeze. No one called him Ape in his presence, and although he specialized in the trafficking of drugs, he dismissed anyone in his organization who “tasted the goods,” as he put it.

His two sons were playing on the court and Ape looked benignly in their direction from time to time. “They have it so easy, they don’t know. Respect is dead.”

“Do you ever play them?”

“Do I look crazy? They hang out a lot with Grisha’s son, Alexi. Ambitious kids. I once saw Yeltsin play Pavarotti on this tennis court. Now, that was a game.” Beledon sorted through an array of vitamins and fruit on a silver tray. “Boris hit every ball hard, no matter what. Pavarotti’s weight was misleading. He could have been a professional soccer player. The look on Yeltsin’s face when Pavarotti played a drop shot. I wiped away tears. The question is, what was the look on Grisha’s face when someone put a pistol to his head? Was it surprise or resignation? To die is one thing; to be betrayed is another. It all depends on who the ‘someone’ is, right? The relationship.” Ape stopped to applaud an ace. “Don’t you love kids? Not a care in the world. Remember Brando in
The Godfather
? Has a heart attack playing with his grandson. That’s the way to go. Family. Of course, it helps if the kid’s an earner. Develops business. Shows a little ambition. Although there’s such a thing as
too much ambition too soon. That can create conflicts. Take you, for example. So far as I can tell, the only thing you were supposed to be doing was finding the body of Tatiana Petrovna, who, by the way, I always held in high regard despite the fact we were on opposite sides of the fence, so to speak. Okay. But she’s been found, at least her ashes. What are you after now? You tell me.”

“I’m after whoever killed her,” Arkady said.

“See? An honest answer. I like that. No official authority, no waiting for a prosecutor to find his dick, just stubborn determination. Whose ox is gored? That’s what to look for. Who benefits. Here, take some pills with you. You look like you could use a little vitamin C. And D.” Ape got to his feet. “The boys will show you out.”

“I thought we were going to talk about Tatiana Petrovna.”

“We did.”

•  •  •

Victor still hadn’t answered his phone. He wasn’t at the Den or any of the half dozen bars or stand-up cafeterias with steamy windows that he frequented. Finally, Arkady tried the Armory, a watering hole for frontier guards. Victor was in a rear booth, ashamed at being found but—as if his legs had been sawed off—unable to leave his new comrades.

“Wait, these are very educated gentlemen.”

“Let’s go,” Arkady said.

“Their words are few but profound.”

Two faces with lopsided grins looked up at Arkady.

“He’s our buddy.”

“He’s going to join us on Frontier Guards Day.”

That was a rash promise. On their day, the Frontier Guards were famous for drinking and mobbing Red Square.

“One more glass,” Victor begged Arkady.

“Stand up.”

“I can do it. I don’t need any help. For God’s sake, leave a man a little dignity.” Victor bowed theatrically and slid off the bench in a heap.

Arkady managed to get him to the car.

As they drove, Arkady noticed that the
Natalya Goncharova,
Grisha’s superyacht, was no longer anchored off the Kremlin Pier. In which case, where was Alexi staying? He had boasted to Anya about having a penthouse. Either way he was out of Arkady’s reach.

Victor hung his head out the window and sniffed like a connoisseur. “Fresh air.”

Whose ox was gored?

The question had a biblical resonance. Arkady imagined an ancient Sumerian standing in a field of trampled grain and asking the same question. Who suffered? Who gained?

Beledon and Valentina were established organizations, doing very nicely, thank you, and not likely to see any benefit in upsetting the apple cart. Or the ox.

Abdul observed no such niceties.
You say, I don’t know whom to strike. I say, strike them all.
But was a Chechen organization going to take on every Russian gang? Abdul seemed more involved with the sales of his DVDs than he was with revolution.

Alexi Grigorenko thought that he could inherit his father’s enterprises by making a public claim on them. Just by his ignorance, he was dangerous.

Whose ox was gored?

•  •  •

At night, Arkady drove along the halo of car dealerships and gentlemen’s clubs that stretched along the Ring Road. Zhenya called on Arkady’s cell phone and was even more maddening than usual.

“What is the notebook about?”

Arkady said, “It’s nothing. It’s just a notebook. The main thing is that you stole it and I want it back.”

“You said it was in code.”

“I don’t know what it is. It has no value.”

“Is that why you locked it in a safe? Maybe I should tear it up.”

“Don’t.”

“Maybe I should be asking for money too. But I’ll be generous. All I want is the parental form signed so I can enlist. I can join the army, and you can keep a notebook that nobody can read.”

“It’s for a dead case.”

“It’s not dead if you’re working it.”

“It’s for Tatiana Petrovna.”

“I know that.”

“How do you know that?” There were no names on or in the notebook as far as Arkady remembered.

An edge developed in Zhenya’s voice. “Just sign the permission.”

“Are you breaking the code?”

“I’ll give you an hour, and then I’ll start tearing up the notebook.”

“Have you been reading it? What else have you learned?”

“Sign the slip,” Zhenya said, and hung up.

“Shit,” Arkady said. No other word would do.

•  •  •

As soon as he reached his apartment, Arkady dropped onto his bed. He had heard not a sound from Anya’s flat and was not about to knock on her door. Perhaps she and Alexi were enjoying a pre-party party. Arkady didn’t care. All he craved was sleep, and he was still dressed when he pulled up his coverlet.

Fatigue conjured up the strangest dreams. He found himself following a tapping sound down a dark hallway, rapid claw taps on a wooden floor. As he caught up, it became evident that he was following a white rabbit that slipped in and out of red velvet drapes. Arkady was nearly within reach when the rabbit bolted into a room that was full of men in Nazi SS uniforms who bore horrible wounds.

Arkady’s father sat at a table with a revolver and three telephones, white, red and black. What the colors signified, Arkady didn’t know. Although the top of the general’s head was shaved off, he smoked a cigarette with aplomb and when the white cat jumped onto his lap, he let it nestle like a favored pet. Anticipation was building. Although Arkady didn’t understand a word, he was aware of hands pushing him toward the table. The pug turned his face up to Arkady.

The red telephone rang. It rang and rang until he woke in a sweat. The Germans and his father were gone. The revolver was gone and the nightmare was incomplete. The telephone, however, was ringing off its cradle.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Investigator Renko. It’s Lorenzo.”

Arkady found his watch. It was three in the morning.

“Lorenzo . . .”

“From Ercolo Bicycles in Milan.”

“What time is it there?”

“Midnight.”

“I thought so.” Arkady rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

“You told me to call if I found the receipt or number of the bike we made for a Signor Bonnafos. You have a pen and paper?”

Arkady fumbled in the drawer of his night table. “Yes.”

“This will take just a second,” Lorenzo promised.

“I’m ready.”

“A bicycle is fitted like a custom suit, only more so.”

“I understand.”

“After all, a bicycle has to be not only a thing of beauty but durable enough to withstand the rigors of the road.”

“I’m sure. What is the number?”

“This took hours of research. Are you ready?” Lorenzo asked. He called out the identification numbers like a bingo master: “JB-10-25-12-81. JB-10-25-12-81.”

“Can you remember anything else about Bonnafos?”

“Cast bottom bracket and exposed cables.”

“I meant personally.”

“A fitness fanatic, but otherwise, I would have to say he had no personality.”

“Women?”

“No.”

“Politics?”

“No.”

“Sports?”

“Aside from biking, no.”

Arkady thought that Joseph Bonnafos sounded more and more a perfect cipher; perhaps that was an advantage for an interpreter.

“Anything else?” Lorenzo asked. “It’s getting late.”

“It is. Thank you. You’ve been very patient.”

Arkady expected some polite disengagement. Lorenzo simply said, “Find the bike.”

Arkady thought that even if Bonnafos was a cipher, his brain had to be phenomenal. According to studies, each human brain was different according to age, gender, consumption of vodka and disease. Was there a difference according to language? Around the world, people mimicked the sound of cats differently. If they heard cats differently, how could they ever understand each other? Eternal questions, Arkady thought. Obviously he was asleep on his feet.

But he heard the horn of a car alarm and from the bedroom window looked down on the garages across the street where the car alarm of his Niva blared. Arkady pressed his remote control to no effect, which only put him in more of a mood to shoot the car and be done with it.

Finally, for the sake of the neighbors, he took the elevator down and opened the garage. It was a tight little shack with just enough room for his car, a work counter and jerry cans. The garage light was out and when the car alarm quit he was in complete darkness.