“Is Mrs. Porvinovich there? This is Inspector Rostnikov.”
“Yes …” He paused.
Rostnikov could tell he was putting his hand over the speaker. Rostnikov knew that he was asking her what to do.
“This is Anna Porvinovich,” she said with irritation.
“This is Inspector Rostnikov. I have good news. We have a definite lead on the people who kidnapped your husband. We expect even better news, possibly his very location, within the hour. As soon as we know just a bit more, we will come and see you.”
“Very good,” she said evenly.
“That is how we view it,” said Rostnikov. “Ah, my other phone is ringing. It may be that information about your husband. Please excuse me.”
With that, Rostnikov hung up and started back to the table.
“Now she will either discuss the situation with the brother,” he said, “or …”
“She will call the kidnappers,” Hamilton said, wondering whether it was polite to ask for more bread and jam.
Rostnikov recognized the signs of the FBI agent’s unsatisfied appetite and sliced another piece of bread, then pushed the jam in his direction. He would, as soon as possible, make a stop to see Luba Lasuria, an old woman from Armenia whom he had once kept out of jail. Luba lived a short walk away on Garibaldi Street, a few doors from the Ceremuski Cinema. Luba was an extremely successful dealer in black-market food. She never revealed her source, but it was said to be three nephews who regularly crossed over into France and Germany by paying bribes to border guards. The three nephews would return with suitcases full of food that could be sold for ten times what they’d paid for it.
When they had finished the meal and cleaned up the dishes, Rostnikov returned to the phone and made a call while Hamilton openly examined the books that lined the wall. There were books on art and music, a few on Russian history, a great many well-worn mystery paperbacks by Ed McBain, Susan Dunlap, John Lutz, Lawrence Block, Marcia Muller, Bill Pronzini, and many others. A far smaller number of books-in both Russian and English-dealt with plumbing.
“Report,” Rostnikov said to the person on the phone. Then he listened, watching the American move to the small assortment of dumbbells and metal weights in the corner of the bookcase. Still listening to the person on the other end, Rostnikov opened the lower shelf of the bookcase to reveal far more weights, lifting bars, seventy-pound dumbbells, and a portable weight bench with a well-worn gray plastic covering.
“Good,” Rostnikov finally said, and hung up the phone. “You lift weights?”
“Machines,” Hamilton said.
“You lift machines?”
“I use weight machines, and I run on a track.”
“I’ve seen those weight machines,” Rostnikov said. “In the Olympic gym where the great ones train. I think I prefer the old iron. Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” asked Hamilton.
“To an automobile repair shop,” said Rostnikov. “Anna Porvinovich just placed a call to an automobile repair shop and asked for an Artiom Solovyov. Between us, we will soon have all her secrets, including the answer to the question ‘Why does the woman whose husband has been kidnapped call an automobile repairman moments after being told that the criminals are on the verge of being caught?’”
“I can think of many reasons,” said Hamilton, following Rostnikov to the front door. “But only one of them particularly appeals to me.”
“Come, let us have a pleasant talk with this Artiom Solovyov,” said Rostnikov.
They were almost out of the door when Hamilton could not resist asking, “Why do you have all those plumbing books?”
“Do you meditate?” Rostnikov asked, stepping into the hall.
“No,” said Hamilton.
“Do you do anything to take brief vacations from reality?” Rostnikov closed the door to the apartment.
“Jigsaw puzzles,” Hamilton confessed. “All black, all white, three-dimensional, thousands of pieces.”
“Your meditation,” Rostnikov said. “Plumbing is mine.”
The old man held up his cane, pointed it at the two detectives like a gun, and said, “Boom, boom, boom.” Then he tucked the cane back under his arm and smiled with satisfaction.
“You are saying that Oleg Makmunov was shot and killed in the doorway across the street?” asked Sasha.
The old man nodded sagely and said, “Tall man, loud gun. All the rest around here will be afraid to tell you, but I saw it all.”
The old man was wearing a postman’s cap and a coat too warm for the weather. He needed to decide whether to shave or grow a beard. Beards had not returned to fashion yet except among some highly successful businessmen and mafia leaders.
“You saw a man shoot down a drunk last night in that doorway?” Sasha asked, pointing to the doorway. The crushed body of Oleg Makmunov had been removed hours ago.
The old man on crutches shook his head firmly. People passed. A few older ones with string bags or a small child in tow glanced at the three men and moved on.
“It was Zorotich,” said the old man firmly.
“Someone named Zorotich shot the man in the doorway over there?” asked Sasha.
Zelach was somewhat bewildered by the exchange since he knew that Makmunov had been beaten and kicked to death, not shot.
“Svet Zorotich shot him,” the old man said decisively. “With an American tommy gun, an old one with one of those cans wrapped around it.”
“Where can we find this Zorotich?” Sasha asked politely.
“Right up there,” the old man said, pointing above him with his crutch and almost knocking off his postman’s cap. “He lives right over me, makes noise all night. I heard him go out, saw what he did. I’ll say so before any judge, any judge.”
“Thank you,” said Sasha, brushing back his hair, putting away his notebook, and shaking the old man’s trembling hand.
“Others around here are afraid to talk.” The old man looked up and down the street with contempt. “But someone’s got to stop this lunatic. Am I right?”
“You are right,” said Sasha, moving past the old man and motioning for Zelach to follow.
Sasha entered the building and started up the stairs with Zelach behind him. Outside, the old man watched them for a moment, then looked up and down the street, wondering which way to hobble.
“What are we doing, Sasha?” Zelach asked, panting as he climbed the narrow, dark stairway.
“We are going to talk to Mad Dog Zorotich,” Sasha answered. “He mows people down in the street for daring to look at him or utter his name in vain.”
“Seriously, Sasha.”
“It can’t hurt,” said Sasha, walking down a narrow corridor. There were only six apartments on each floor. It wasn’t hard to find Zorotich’s. His name was finely scripted on a white card pasted to the door.
Sasha knocked. No answer came from within. He knocked again, this time more loudly. Still no answer. He motioned for Zelach to move away. Zelach did what he was told, but Sasha remained in front of the door, motioning for Zelach to continue down the stairs. Zelach dutifully obeyed, proceeding out the door. Sasha put his ear to the door just above the finely lettered name. He heard a shuffling movement and then he said, “We know you are in there, Zorotich. Open the door, or my partner will break it down.”
“No,” came a voice inside. “You’ve come to kill me and take my apartment, like Illyna last month.”
Sasha removed his identification card from his wallet and slid it under the door.
“You see my card?” he said.
More shuffling, a move toward the door.
“It could be a fake. You people can make good fakes.”
“It’s not fake. I’m a policeman. Your neighbor downstairs said-”
“The fake cripple? There’s nothing wrong with him. He can walk as well as you or me. He’s crazy. He wants sympathy, a pension.”
“Last night, late, someone was killed across the street. Did you see anything, hear anything?”