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“You,” she said. “You killed him. One of you came in here and killed him, killed him for what he thought, what he said, what he wanted.”

Grief had made the woman speak out in a way she would never have spoken in a natural state. It was refreshing and somewhat astonishing for Rostnikov to hear such outcries, and he secretly enjoyed moments of honesty, though he hid his pleasure behind a patient nod and sigh. In most cases, Russians had learned to control their outrage or kill it. Complaints were fruitless and could be dangerous.

“I did not kill your husband,” he said softly.

“Not you, one of you, K.G.B.,” she shouted. “They were following him, threatening him.”

“No,” said Rostnikov, wondering if he could ask for a cup of tea, not to keep the woman busy but to have something to do with his hands that wanted to touch objects in the room, the small painting on the wall, or to reach out and engulf the two thin women, to comfort and quiet them.

“No,” he repeated. “Listen, it is not beyond the power of the state to act, but like this? No point. It is not…”

“Clean?” she finished, her body shaking.

“Clean, a good word,” Rostnikov agreed.

“You did it,” she repeated, turning her eyes back to the corpse. “That is what happened, what we will say, what I know. You can kill us, beat us, send us to the Vladimirka prison, but that is what we will say, what we know,”

Rostnikov had seen this look before. He had lost for the moment. She had fixed on the idea, grasped it like a god, a cause, something to exist or be martyred for. She would, at least for now, cling to the belief that her husband had been killed by the state. The three, detective, woman, and girl, all looked at the body. A spot of blood had grown larger, seeping through the sheet. It spread in an uneven pattern, as if it had life, were groping. It cast a spell broken by a knock at the door.

Officer Drabkova opened the door and stood back to let Karpo and Tkach in. Karpo the Tatar looked first at Rostnikov, whose look told him how to act. Tkach looked first at the corpse, then at the two women and finally at Rostnikov, who made a nod to draw the two men closer.

“Officer Drubkova,” Rostnikov whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “will you please take Mrs. Granovsky and her daughter…” and he was at a loss as to where they could go. They certainly couldn’t sit there watching the corpse. “Mrs. Granovsky, do you have someplace you can stay, someplace-”

“Our place is here,” she spat back.

“You can hate me just as well in another apartment,” he countered.

“No,” she said between her teeth, “it is easier here.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Rostnikov agreed, “but I can’t have it. We have work to do, a murderer to find. We can take you to a cell.”

“Fine,” said Sonya Granovsky, straightening her back and indeed, it would be fine with her. Rostnikov knew he had made a mistake.

“Why don’t I take them someplace and question them?” Karpo said, turning his eyes on the two women. Sonya Granovsky looked up at the gaunt, almost corpse-like figure and suppressed a shudder.

“My brother, Kolya, he lives near,” she said, “he might…”

“He will,” Rostnikov added emphatically. “Officer Drubkova will see that you get there.”

Drubkova moved quickly to the two women and helped them up with more gentleness than Rostnikov had thought she possessed. The girl was still crying softly as Officer Drubkova helped her put her coat on. Sonya Granovsky dressed herself and turned to face Rostnikov once more at the door. Her hat was on an angle, a comic angle like Popov the Clown. Maybe with a wisp of hair in her eyes she would look like the dissheveled American actress whose name he couldn’t remember.

“I meant what I said,” she said with a tremor.

Rostnikov nodded and watched Drubkova lead the two figures out.

“Drubkova,” he called when the door was almost shut and the woman hurried back into the room. “You, personally, are to remain with them all night. If they don’t let you stay in the apartment, remain outside as close as you can. Hear what you can hear and prepare a report. You will be relieved in the morning. Tkach, see to it.”

Tkach nodded and Drubkova left, her brown uniform tight with pride.

When the door closed, Rostnikov went to the sofa and sat heavily in it. Karpo knelt by the body and pulled back the sheet.

“Tkach, go out in the hall and tell the man out there to have the evidence people get up here now.” Tkach did as he was told and Rostnikov watched Karpo examine the body.

“You frightened that poor grieving widow,” Rostnikov said with a smile.

“A talent developed over the years,” Karpo answered, looking into the eyes of the corpse.

“And what does my corpse tell you?” Rostnikov asked.

“Secrets,” said Karpo softly. “He whispers to me. The dead and I get along quite well.”

“Better than the living?” said Rostnikov, watching the Tatar’s fingers explore the area around the wound.

“Yes,” said Karpo evenly. “Whoever did this had strength. This sickle is old and rusty, yet the penetration is deep and through a bone. A strong man.”

“Or a madman or woman given the strength of purpose or anger,” Rostnikov said, looking at the dead man’s face. It was an angry face even in death. He would be forever angry.

Karpo rose.

“Assuming he was not lying down when he was struck,” Karpo began.

“He was not,” said Rostnikov. “The trail of blood is from the front door.”

“Of course,” Karpo continued. “The killer was not tall, the wound indicates someone no bigger than…”

“…me,” Rostnikov finished.

Karpo shrugged and Tkach reentered the room. “And what are you working on?” Rostnikov asked the young man. “Just the most important cases.”

“State liquor store thefts,” he answered quickly. “Someone is breaking into state liquor stores at night. Huge amounts have been taken. It is a very large, very bold black market operation. I have-”

“No details,” Rostnikov said holding up a hand and looking back at the corpse. “That will wait. You get two, maybe three hours sleep and then start following up on Granovsky’s friends. Be nice, be kind, be sympathetic. Find out if he had enemies, what they think. Be discreet, but find out.”

“Shall I take a uniformed man with me?” Tkach asked.

“What you think best,” responded Rostnikov, without turning around. “Would you see if there is any tea here?”

“Yes,” said Tkach moving past the corpse and to the kitchen area. “You think the tea…”

“I’d like some tea,” Rostnikov closed. “Don’t worry about fingerprints. The killer didn’t come in and make tea. He or she did it and ran. There was a K.G.B. man watching the place when Granovsky was murdered.”

“That is Granovsky, the…” Tkach said turning from his search to take another look at the corpse.

“It is,” said Rostnikov looking at Karpo, whose face betrayed nothing. “And you Emil, your cases?”

“Apartment robberies, assault, and someone masquerading as a police officer has been preying on African students at Moscow University, pretending to suspect them of crimes, taking their money. Complaints…”

“Ah,” sighed Rostnikov, listening for the sound of boiling water, “political.”

“Everything is political,” Karpo added, wandering to the window to examine the hole.

“I sit corrected,” Rostnikov.

“I was not correcting you,” said Karpo. “I was observing.”

“Yes,” sighed Rostnikov, rising with effort to the sound of a knock at the door. “Well this is more political. When the evidence people finish, I want you to take that sickle and find what you can find.”

The door opened and three dark figures entered slowly. One held a suitcase, another, wearing thick, tinted glasses, carried a camera.

“Tkach, we are leaving,” said Rostnikov. “Gentlemen, there will be hot water in a few minutes for tea.”

The third dark figure, who wore no glasses and carried nothing, spoke in a rumbling voice that sounded like a Metro train.