A Fine Red Rain Read online

  “You find it interesting?” Katya Rashkovskaya said with irritation as he flipped to the final page of the album.

  He had not heard her enter, a sign of her acrobatic lightness or his own age.

  “Yes,” said Rostnikov, without turning to look at the woman. “Interesting, sad.”

  He looked at the last page and slowly returned the album to the drawer.

  “You frequently snoop in other people’s drawers, the drawers of dead people,” she said.

  “Frequently,” Rostnikov said, turning to face her. “It’s my job.”

  “You enjoy it,” she said.

  “Usually,” he agreed.

  She stood in the doorway to the room, her arms folded in front of her once again, protecting herself. She wore a white dress and a light gray sweater, and her hair was loose and full around her face.

  “It is an unpleasant job, a dirty job,” she attacked.

  “Sometimes unpleasant, sometimes dirty,” he agreed, again moving toward her. She stepped out of the way as he approached and followed him as he moved to the other bedroom.

  “What are you doing now?” she cried, as he opened the second door.

  “My job,” he said. “I’m trying to find out who killed Pesknoko and frightened Duznetzov to death.”

  The room he was in was larger than the other bedroom. No posters, but over the bed a large framed color photograph of Katya and Pesknoko in white tights. His arm was around her waist, and her smile, unlike that in the other photographs, was sincere. The blanket on the bed was a soft brown with a flower pattern and looked as if it might be silk.

  “I don’t want you looking in my drawers,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  Rostnikov glanced around the room and backed out into the living room, where he crossed to the small table.

  “What do you want?” Katya demanded.

  “I brought you the plumbing books,” he said, handing her the books. “I also dismissed Dunin. The pistol I will have to keep.”

  She reached over to take the books from him, a quite puzzled look on her face. The man in front of her was an average-sized, dark crate of a man with a typical Moscow face: flat, dark-eyed, weathered. There seemed to be nothing unusual about him at first glance, but she could see a melancholy irony in his eyes as if he were about to tell a sad but poignant tale. And his words, his words were disarmingly honest. He was, she decided, a man to be wary of.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the books and clutching them to her breasts as a schoolgirl would.

  “I made a call before I came here,” he said. “There is a small park on Leningrad Prospekt just past the airport.”

  “Near Alabyan Street?”

  “Not that far, but you know the area. On the front page inside the book closest to your heart is the address and name of a woman who will get you a new toilet, will even have her sons deliver it if you can pay the price.”

  “I can pay the price,” Katya said. “Thank you again. Do you want some tea, coffee?”

  “No,” Rostnikov said.

  “Then?”

  “I want,” said Rostnikov, moving back to the wooden chair, “the name of the person you believe is responsible for the death of Oleg Pesknoko.”

  “Accidents,” she said.

  Rostnikov shook his head and looked at his short, knobby fingers laid flat on the table.

  “I don’t know,” she said, angrily dropping the books on the table so that he had to pull his hands back quickly. “What do you want from me?”

  “To save your life,” he said, setting the books neatly and rising. “But I may not have the time. I am no longer investigating the accidents of yesterday morning. When I leave this apartment, the case will be closed, at least until whoever is responsible kills you.”

  His eyes met hers again, and she seemed on the verge of speaking but once again held back.

  “Then there is nothing to be done,” he said, moving to the door. “I’ll return for the books in a week. I hope you are alive when I come for them.”

  “You are trying to frighten me,” Katya said.

  “Yes,” Rostnikov agreed. “But I’m also telling the truth. I have a son in the army. He’s just been sent to Afghanistan.”

  He had paused at the door to say this and turned for her reaction.

  “I’m sorry, but … you are a confusing man. Why did you tell me about your son?”

  Rostnikov shrugged.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I really don’t. I thought it might somehow persuade you to let me help you. In my work there are far too many failures. Maybe it was as simple as thinking that my son would find you very pretty.”

  She smiled, showing even teeth.

  “I like older gentlemen,” she said teasingly.

  “Pesknoko,” he said.

  The smile dropped from her face and she bit her lower lip.

  “Yes,” she said. “Why is this so important to you? Are you like this about all your investigations?”

  “No,” he said softly. “Perhaps it is the circus. Perhaps it is the memory of Duznetzov on Gogol’s head, the rain splashing against his face. Perhaps it is simply you. I’ve never known anyone who has shot a toilet. It’s an act of outrage I can understand.”

  Rostnikov left without another word. He had nothing more to say. He walked slowly down the hall because his leg permitted him to walk no faster. He did not really expect that she would open the door and call him back, and she did not.

  The morning was warm as Rostnikov crossed Lenin Prospekt and found a street bench from which he could see the entrance to Katya Rashkovskaya’s apartment building. The bench was far enough away on the even-numbered side of the street so that she probably wouldn’t notice him. Following her would not be easy. She was young, swift, an acrobat, but if she did not know she was being followed, he was confident that he could keep up with her.

  Rostnikov looked up at the tall buildings and the sun, pulled a day-old copy of Izvestia from his coat pocket, and pretended to read as young mothers with baby carriages, old men heading for the park and each other, and babushkas with avoskas for shopping strolled past him. No one looked at him for more than a glance. It would be hours before anyone found it strange that this man had nothing to do for so long but read his paper. No one would bother him. They’d assume he was either a madman or a policeman and stay out of his way, but he preferred not to be noticed. As it was, he waited only seventeen minutes till Katya Rashkovskaya came through the entrance of her building. She did not look around to see if anyone were following her. She turned to her right and began to walk quickly away from Rostnikov’s bench.

  At this pace he was sure he would never keep up with her. There were no real crowds at this hour of the morning, so he would have trouble hiding, staying close. He stood up quickly, put his newspaper in his pocket, and turned to follow her at the same moment that a dark automobile pulled out of traffic, moved from the left lane into oncoming traffic on the right, shot across the street, and bumped over the curb toward the back of the unsuspecting Katya.

  Rostnikov cupped his hands and bellowed above the sounds of traffic. His voice carried, heads turned to look at the madman, and one of the heads was that of Katya Rashkovskaya. An average person would have had no chance with the oncoming car, but Katya was an acrobat. She leaped backward instinctively, a graceful, high back flip that brought her down just beyond the fender of the dark car, which bumped over the curbing, missed an approaching bus, and joined the line of automobiles racing outward from the city.

  Rostnikov lumbered forward, professionally stopping traffic with his outstretched hands as he had done as a young policeman. When he reached Katya’s side, she was being comforted by an old woman who seemed to be no more than four feet tall and wore a black babushka over her head.

  “Crazy mad,” the woman said, holding Katya’s hand. “A drunk. They tell us that all this drunkenness will stop, but does it stop?”

  Katya was staring blankly at the
building across the street.

  “You poor … And the police. Where are the police? There used to be police everywhere,” the old woman lamented.

  “I’m the police,” Rostnikov said.

  The old woman looked at him as if he were drenched in acrid lemon juice.

  “I’ll take care of the young lady,” he added.

  Reluctantly, the old woman let go of Katya’s hand, which, instead of falling to her side, remained extended as if still in the firm grip of the tiny woman.

  “He could have killed her. You know that?” the old woman said, accusing Rostnikov.

  “I know that,” Rostnikov said, watching Katya’s face. “I know that.”

  The old woman stood for a moment and then spotted someone not unlike herself across the street. She pulled herself away with a final shrug of disgust and hurried to tell the tale to her crony.

  “I have nothing to say,” Katya said through closed teeth, hyperventilating.

  “This, too, was an accident?” he asked, ignoring the pedestrians who slowed down to look at this frightened young woman and the barrel-shaped man.

  “An accident,” she said.

  Summoning a hidden reserve, the young woman forced her eyes away from the building across the street, pushed away from the protection of the brick wall behind her, and looked at Rostnikov defiantly.

  “An accident,” she repeated.

  “I cannot always be present to prevent accidents,” he said.

  “I know. Spasee’ba, thank you, but I’ll do what I must do to see to it that there are no more accidents. You told me you were no longer investigating yesterday’s … accidents.”

  “I’m not,” Rostnikov said as she pulled herself together. “I’m now investigating a case of drunk driving and a near-fatal accident resulting from it. Premier Gorbachev wishes to eliminate drunkenness and I plan to help him. My first task will be to locate that drunk driver.”

  “You …” the young woman began and then changed her mind. She scanned the traffic coming and going, looked at the faces of people on the street, and hurried away much faster than Rostnikov could possibly follow.

  Emil Karpo paused under the awning of a restaurant-bar off Kalinin Prospekt. The Belgorod was small and the service was poor even by Moscow’s standards. The food was decent. The prices were not bad. There was no atmosphere to speak of, only a dozen tables in a dark main room and flimsy wooden tables with thick, brown, cotton cloths. The walls of the Belgorod matched the tablecloths, or came reasonably close, not by design but by chance. On the walls were indifferent paintings of imaginary landscapes. But most people did not come to the Belgorod for the food or the atmosphere. They came to discuss business, frequently illegal, or to meet one of the prostitutes who were known to check in with the bartenders and waiters.

  The windows of the Belgorod were covered with lace curtains, making it impossible to see inside, though a bit of light managed to penetrate from the narrow street. It happened occasionally that a wandering tourist or a visitor from out of town might chance on the Belgorod and mistake it, because of the lace curtains, for a tearoom. Once he was inside, however, the smoke-filled room of suspicious-looking people would cause him to depart after fifteen or twenty minutes of nonservice.

  Emil Karpo opened the door of the Belgorod and stepped into the near-darkness and the sound of voices. A man’s deep, laughing voice turned into a cough. A woman giggled. It was still early, no later than noon, but every table was full, with couples and groups of men talking, drinking, leaning forward to conspire. A room of cheap suits and bright ties, made-up women. Several conversations stopped when Karpo entered, stopped because people looked up at the tall, pale figure whose head hardly moved but whose eyes looked them over and recorded them. The owner of the Belgorod was Serge Ivanov, who tended the bar. Normally Ivanov moved very slowly, as befitted an owner, but now he hurried toward his new customer and wiped his hands on his pants as he advanced with a little smile on his lips.

  “Inspector,” Ivanov whispered. He started to hold out a hand and then pulled it back. Ivanov was a thin man with a potbelly and a nervous twitch of the head that made it seem he was telling you to look to the right or that he was frequently saying no at the oddest of times.

  Karpo said nothing.

  “May I say,” Ivanov began, the smile fixed, the head nodding, “I hope I can say, that I’ve known you long enough or at least been acquainted with you … The fact is that you are not … I mean, when you come in … How can I put this? My patrons, they feel, some of them feel a little uncomfort— … uneasy, when a policeman, you … You understand?”

  “Mathilde,” Karpo said, without looking at Ivanov. The policeman’s eyes continued to scan the room. The noise level had dropped perceptibly since his entrance. A few men tried to engage him in a staring duel. Karpo paid no attention.

  “Mathilde, as you can see,” said Ivanov, looking around the room, “is not here today.” He cleaned his palms once again against his trousers.

  For the first time, Karpo looked into the eyes of the potbellied proprietor, and Ivanov wilted instantly.

  “I’m just a small businessman,” Ivanov bleated like a sheep. “I … in the back. A private party. What can I tell you? I forgot for a moment. It’s been busy here like Bastille Day. Bastille Day is our busiest …”

  Karpo moved past the tables of people who had been having a good time before his arrival and were now seriously thinking of all the work they had to do elsewhere. Ivanov followed him, smile fixed, head twitching.

  “A small, private party,” Ivanov said. “What’s the harm?”

  Karpo said nothing as he moved behind the bar and past a new waiter, who seemed about to step in front of the advancing ghost and then changed his mind.

  “At least let’s knock,” said Ivanov, moving to Karpo’s side. “It’s only polite, reasonable, common courtesy to—”

  Karpo reached down and opened the door with his left hand. The hand responded well, with little pain, and Emil Karpo was pleased.

  The room he stepped into was remarkably large, almost as large as the outer room through which he had just come, but this inner room had only two tables and a dozen chairs. The tables were no more substantial than the ones in front, but they were larger. Two large blue sofas, badly contrasting with the brown walls, rested in the corner. The room reeked of tobacco and alcohol. There were only four people in the room when Ivanov and Karpo entered. They were seated at one end of the table farthest from the door. Two men and two women. The two men and one of the women looked up, surprised. The other woman glanced at Karpo and Ivanov and shook her head wearily.

  “I tried,” Ivanov said to the large man who stood up to face Karpo.

  The big man had a pink face and a recent haircut. He was wearing an expensive jacket with medals. As he lumbered toward Karpo, the policeman could read the red enamel print on the largest medal: “Participant in the Achievements of the Economy of the Soviet Union.”

  “This is a private party,” the big man said, clenching his fists. “I am drunk and this is a very private party.”

  “Inspector Karpo is a policeman, with the Procurator’s Office,” Ivanov said, his head twitching.

  The big man did not seem impressed. His face was pink. He was drunk.

  “I am an achiever,” the big man with the pink face and fresh haircut said, thumping his chest with his already clenched fist. “My factory meets quotas and I’m on vacation.”

  Karpo ignored the man and took another step forward, which brought him almost face-to-face with the florid man, but the policeman was looking at one of the two seated women, a woman in her thirties, tall, with billowy brown hair, handsome, firm, but not quite pretty.

  She shook her head, smiled without humor, and stood up.

  “I’m talking to you,” said the man with the pink face. “Policeman, I’m talking to you.”

  The woman grabbed her small bag and stepped around the table toward the policeman.

  “The
re’s no need—” Ivanov pleaded, grabbing the big man’s arm.

  The big man flung the owner away without looking at him. Ivanov stumbled to keep his balance and miss a nearby chair. He was either very graceful or very lucky, because he hit nothing and came to a stop not far from the wall, where he stood panting.

  The woman walked past the two men to the door.

  “I’m …” the big man said, grabbing Karpo’s left arm.

  “Boris!” cried the man who had not stood up, but Boris had gone too far to back down.

  Pain ran through Karpo’s arm and hand. The pain, like all pain, was good because it tested, confirmed, or denied. By chance—luck, good or bad—the drunken man had grabbed Karpo at the most vulnerable point of his healing arm.

  “… talking to you. Answer me, damn you. What are you doing here, breaking into a private—” The man stopped speaking when he realized that the gaunt, possibly insane, policeman had gripped his right arm just above the elbow. It was as if the policeman were about to embrace this man who was confronting him.