“Get down,” Yevgeny shouted. “Now. Down.”
Vera, her eyes fixed on Yuri, sank to her knees as if in prayer.
Yevgeny took another look out the window and moved to her, placing his weapon on the floor. He put his arm around her, knowing she was going into shock. He had trained for this but had never had to do it before.
She looked over her shoulder as he started to lead her from the room. His hand accidentally touched her breast. She didn’t notice, but he felt a stir and damned himself.
“Wait,” she said, pulling away from him and moving to the body of her husband. She took the phone from his reluctant fingers and spoke to the woman on the other end.
“He is dead,” Vera said.
“Dead?” asked Katya. “You killed him?”
Vera hung up the phone. Yevgeny took it from her, put it down on the bed, and led her onto the landing and down the stairs.
The suggestion by Andrei Vanga that he accompany Karpo and Zelach to the apartment of Sergei Bolskanov was noted by Karpo with interest. Karpo had no belief in intuition and little faith in his own ability to detect the underlying feelings and motives of others. He tried to deal only in evidence based on a long career as a criminal investigator.
That experience reminded him of the many other instances in which people in major cases, often involving murder, had volunteered to assist in some aspect of the investigation. The morbid, the guilty, and occasionally the few who for emotional reasons wanted the crime solved and the guilty punished were the ones who volunteered. Occasionally, a person with a vested interest in the investigation would also cooperate. In Karpo’s experience, there had been no other reasons.
The likely conclusion in this situation was that Vanga had a vested interest. It might simply be that he wanted to do what he could to find the killer and return the center to some level of normalcy so that he could return to raising money and supporting research. Karpo entertained the other possibilities and did not dismiss that Vanga might, in fact, be the murderer.
Karpo did not worry about motive. That would come if Vanga was guilty.
The conversation had taken place at the Center for the Study of Technical Parapsychology after Karpo and Zelach had returned with a dour little man named Tikon Tayumvat, who could well have been ninety years old. He grunted. He grumbled. Tayumvat was a well-known name in the field of parapsychology. Vanga had been impressed when he was introduced to the man, who simply grunted. Not only was Tikon Tayumvat, who was no more than five feet tall, an expert in the field, he also knew the technology and how to use computers. But what was of special interest to Karpo, who had found the man through Paulinin, was that Tayumvat was a skeptic. His scrutiny of the research, according to Paulinin, was well known and much feared.
Vanga had shown the little man to Bolskanov’s laboratory and office and stood watching, offering suggestions, especially when the little man had moved to the computer.
Tikon Tayumvat, in turn, had looked at the director, pursed his lips, and said, “I will accomplish more if you take him away. I am old and will die soon. I would like it to be sometime after I complete this investigation.”
And with that, Karpo and Zelach had accompanied the director back to his office.
“I thought Tikon Tayumvat was dead,” said Vanga. “Everyone thought he was dead.”
“I believe his family, though he seems to be quite estranged from them, are very aware that he is alive,” said Karpo.
“Yes, of course. I meant in the profession. What has he been doing for … what is it … what has he been doing for the past thirty years?”
“He says he has been thinking,” said Karpo.
“Well, what now? Has Boris Adamovskovich confessed? I mean, I can’t believe he is guilty of anything, but someone did it and … Has he?”
“No,” said Karpo.
“Then, what now?”
“We are going to Sergei Bolskanov’s apartment again,” said Karpo, standing next to Zelach, who would have liked very much to sit. “Dr. Tayumvat has agreed to see if there is anything there that might interest us.”
“I can’t imagine there would be,” said Vanga, standing behind his desk and looking from one detective to the other.
“Why?” asked Karpo.
“Well … because … I don’t know. This is all very, very difficult,” said Vanga, starting to sit and then standing. “You know, Bolskanov and I were involved in the same area of research, sleep studies, dream states. Perhaps if I were to come with you, I might see something you would overlook.”
“Dr. Tayumvat is knowledgeable,” said Karpo.
“Of course, of course. He is a legend. Would you like some coffee, tea, Pepsi? He is a legend. But he is old. He might miss something important, very important. You want something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” said Karpo for both of them, though Zelach would have loved a Pepsi.
Zelach kept listening for the door behind them to open. He wanted the ancient scientist to return so they could escape from the center before Nadia Spectorski found him.
“Yes, but this is new material, a new direction, don’t you see,” said Vanga. “And personal things. There might be some things of special interest that you and Tikon Tayumvat might miss.”
“Such as?” asked Karpo.
“Such as? I don’t know such as till I see it. It would hurt nothing if I joined you, and it might yield something,” Vanga said earnestly. “I wish to help.”
It was at that point Karpo had agreed. It was a moment later that Tayumvat entered the office and said, “Nothing in his office or his laboratory that will help you find a murderer. He appears to have been engaged in some interesting though probably flawed research. Some of his notes are in his computer, though they tell little. He was working on whatever it was for several years, though I see no evidence that he has written anything. I’ve read his other articles. He is not one to delay. I’d say he is, or was, one to publish a bit before it was prudent to do so. And yet … nothing.”
“He had changed his way of thinking about publishing,” said Vanga. “He didn’t want to write anything till he was certain. He thought he might be two years from even beginning to write. He consulted me frequently. I assured him that support for his work would continue.”
“He may have something written at his home,” said Karpo. “You will accompany us to examine his papers?”
Tayumvat nodded and said, “Vanga … Andrei Vanga? You are Andrei Vanga.”
“Yes,” said Vanga.
“I read your article on dream states among the mentally ill. Journal of Psychic Research.”
Vanga smiled.
“That was twenty years ago at least,” said the old man. “It stunk. You write stinking articles with flawed research and results, and they put you in charge of all this. What have you written since? Something better, I hope, or better nothing at all.”
“I’ve been busy keeping this facility alive, raising money, finding …”
“You burned out,” said Tayumvat.
“No,” Vanga shot back. “In fact, I am almost ready to present a new and, I believe, major report on my research.”
“I hope it’s better than the last one,” said Tayumvat.
“I believe it is,” said Vanga. “Shall we go?”
“You are going?” asked the old man.
“He is going,” said Karpo.
“Then see to it that he stays out of my way and touches nothing,” said Tayumvat, turning toward the door. “Let’s go. Time is something I, Tikon, will not knowingly waste.”
They had barely opened the door when Nadia Spectorski appeared, arms folded over her white lab coat. “I would like a few minutes of Akardy’s time,” she said.
“I must …” Zelach began, feeling the panic he had anticipated.
“We have been told to cooperate with your research,” Karpo said. “Zelach will stay, Nadia Spectorski.”
Tayumvat, who had been walking slowly in front of them down the corridor, turned and looked at her. “Spectorski? Image projection?”