“Your children begged even before the new government,” Sasha said, though he did not know this as a fact any more than he knew that the boys had not been in school.
“And so did I,” Elvira said, touching her hand to her breast. “I have always had a big family and worthless husbands. I’ve had a big burden. I have the luck of a Siberian.”
“And you are to be much admired and appreciated,” Sasha said without expression. He looked at the little girl, who sucked at the candy and regarded him with hostile curiosity. “I would like to talk to your sons.”
“They are not here,” Elvira repeated.
Sasha nodded. Zelach moved past the woman and pushed back the first curtain to reveal a space with three unmade cots and clothes in piles. Zelach moved through this space and pushed back the second curtain to reveal a small bed and an old dresser near the window.
“I told you they weren’t here,” Elvira said, almost weeping now.
Zelach looked back. Sasha nodded and Zelach began to go through the dresser.
“This is wrong,” the woman said. “I’m a mother. I’m pregnant. This could upset me, make me lose my baby, get my little one frightened again. It will be your fault.”
Sasha glanced at the television again. A maid and a butler were talking. Zelach pushed each drawer back carefully, checked the bed, and then moved into the boys’ space, going through their clothing and the contents of several cardboard cartons under each cot.
Elvira sat in silent indignation, rubbing her stomach and glaring at the young policeman. It didn’t seem to bother him. Zelach returned and shook his head. Nothing.
“Satisfied?” she said.
“No,” said Sasha. “We will return.”
“When?” she asked.
The young man didn’t answer. He headed for the door with the other policeman behind him.
“If you were a parent,” Elvira said, following them, “you wouldn’t do this to a loving mother.”
The policemen left. The door locked behind them.
Elvira pushed her daughter away and ran back through the apartment, opened the window, and touched the wooden sill to be sure it hadn’t been moved. There was a space, a narrow space, beneath the sill. Everything that was not cash or could be immediately converted to cash but was thin enough to fit was in a bag in the narrow space. Other things the boys brought home-wallets particularly-were thrown out immediately blocks away. Whatever cash the boys brought in was kept in a pouch she wore on a belt under her clothes. She slept in the belt, certain that the boys did not know it existed. She was wrong.
These two policemen were not the first who had come to harass her, but the young one was the first who looked as if he really cared about her answers. He said he would be back, she was sure he would be back. She had a sudden chill. The changing weather, the fear for herself and her children? She went back into the front of the apartment to watch the rich people in a movie from long ago. The baby began to cry. She had finished her candy.
“What did you get?” Sasha asked when they were back on the street in front of the crumbling building.
“A photograph of a soccer player, Belitnikov,” said Zelach. “A flashlight. An empty yogurt carton. I was careful.”
They had partial fingerprints from the belt of the dead man, Oleg Makmunov. The fingerprints were small. They might match others taken from the Chazov apartment. If they were inconclusive, Sasha and Zelach would take turns watching the apartment till the boys returned. Then they would bring them in for fingerprinting. Even if the fingerprints did not match, they would tell the boys that they did. Normally it was not difficult to get children to turn against one another.
Sasha felt lucky. This was only the second Mark they had tracked down and he was certain this was the right one. But he also felt depressed. The Chazov boys were only eleven, nine, and seven. The young child he had just seen was just a few years younger than his daughter, Pulcharia. He had a sudden vision of his daughter lying with her head crushed by a rock. He pushed the image away, but it mocked him by coming back even clearer.
“What’s wrong, Sasha?” Zelach asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You work here alone?” asked Rostnikov as he looked around the dark garage, which was about the size of a tennis court.
Three cars were parked in the rear. It was difficult to make out exactly what they were because there were only two lights in the garage, both dim, and two windows, both dirty. But Rostnikov and Hamilton could make out piles of automobile parts. In the middle of the floor was a black BMW hoisted on wooden blocks with four fully extended bumper jacks firmly locked on the undercarriage.
“No,” said Artiom Solovyov, wiping his hands. “I have an assistant.”
The man looked a bit like an ape with a handsome battered face and dark hair in need of a cut. He wore a pair of dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt with vertical blue stripes.
“Where is he?” asked Rostnikov.
“Where is he? Boris is home. He is ill,” said Artiom with a sigh, looking around. “And all this work.”
“So you have to do it yourself?” asked Hamilton.
Artiom had tried not to look at the tall black man next to the policeman. The black man had dark, disbelieving eyes.
“What choice have I?” asked Artiom with a shrug.
“Then why aren’t you in work clothes? Why aren’t you covered in grime?” asked Rostnikov.
Artiom Solovyov now looked from man to man in front of him. They had said they had some routine questions about a crime and that he might know the victim. Artiom had emerged from his tiny office with its thin waffle-metal walls. He had smiled and said he had never been involved with something exciting like this before and had pledged his cooperation. But the questions were getting too uncomfortable.
“I just arrived, right before you,” Artiom said. “I was doing some paperwork and-”
“The full name and address of your mechanic,” said Rostnikov.
“Ah … I don’t think I have his address. He just moved. His name is Boris, Boris Ivanov.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to find,” said Hamilton. “How many Boris Ivanovs are there in Moscow?”
“Probably close to two thousand,” said Rostnikov. And then to Artiom, “Alexei Porvinovich.”
Artiom blinked and didn’t answer.
“You know a man named Alexei Porvinovich.”
Fight the panic. How did they find him so quickly? How did they find him at all? They couldn’t have too much on him since they weren’t simply grabbing him right away and hauling him off to the local police station for a “conversation.” Artiom had been the victim of such “conversations” in the past. More than once he had been pulled in to the local station, each time by the same cop, who suggested that Artiom’s garage was a refuge for stolen cars. Each time, Artiom had denied it. Each time, he had been hauled in, placed in a small room, and beaten by the policeman. The last time this happened, Artiom lost part of his hearing in his left ear. He never got it back. The irony was that Artiom did not deal in stolen automobiles. He had insisted, sworn, and endured beatings, but finally he had agreed to pay the policeman a manageable amount each month. The irony had mounted when a local mafia of Chechens also visited him. Artiom had agreed instantly to pay them. If he had not, he was sure, he would have had more than a minor hearing loss. Were he not paying the policeman and the Chechen mafia, he would now have more money. And without the payments and Anna Porvinovich’s demands for him at the oddest of times, he would probably not have considered kidnapping Alexei Porvinovich. And now he had to cope with these two new policemen who knew something.
“Porvinovich,” Artiom repeated, looking up at the rusting ceiling and touching his chin as if deep in thought. “Porvinovich. I think I have a customer with that name. I can check my books.”
“You don’t remember for certain?” the black man asked.
“I have a thriving business. Lots of customers. Some come only once. Some come twice. Some keep coming back.”