Читать книгу The Stylist - Александра Маринина - Страница 4

Artur Malyshev turned out to be a handsome fifty-year-old, trying to look younger, with an unexpectedly soft voice.

“I’m saving my throat,” he explained, seeing that Nastya was straining to hear. “I lecture six hours a day – that’s no joke. And I teach courses in the evenings, too, to help earn my daily bread. So between classes I try to keep it to a whisper.”

He didn’t know very much about Solovyov, they were never particularly friendly and belonged to different crowds. They had been in graduate school at the same time, but in different departments. He had learned about Solovyov’s catastrophe from his wife, who had heard it from some acquaintance who worked in an ambulance service. The acquaintance was a fan of the Eastern Best Seller series, and so she remembered Solovyov in that great mass of people she delivered to the hospital.

“Could you remember exactly what your wife said this friend had said?” Nastya asked.

“Well, that the famous translator Solovyov had been beaten up by someone and that an ambulance had picked him up in the street. That was all, no other details.”

“What about this acquaintance? Do you know her?”

“No, unfortunately. I don’t even know her name.”

“How can that be? You don’t know your wife’s friends?” “She’s not a friend, just an acquaintance. My wife met her at the hospital. I think they may have called each other a few times after that, but this woman never came to our house.” “Which hospital was this that they met?”

Malyshev looked very embarrassed. “I… I don’t know.” “Mr. Malyshev, that is impossible. Are you not telling me something?”

He blushed and looked furiously for his lighter, which was right in front of him.

“You see… Well, my wife was having an abortion. I was out of town then. She did not want me to know about it. Therefore, it’s quite natural that I would not know which hospital she was in.”

“But you still found out that she had had an abortion,” Nastya pointed out.

“Yes.”

Malyshev looked up and into her eyes. “There’s no point in trying to hide it from you. You’re with the police and you won’t rest until you find out, right?”

“Got it in one.”

“Especially since the whole institute knows about it anyway. My wife and I are divorced. She had a new man. It was his baby she was aborting. That’s why she wanted to keep it from me. She managed for a while. But then the man asked her to marry him and move abroad. He has some big company in the Ivory Coast. There, that’s it.”

“Excuse me,” Nastya apologized. “I didn’t want to make you talk about unpleasant things. But I really have to find this acquaintance from the ambulance service. Is there anything you can suggest that will help?”

“No.”

“And is there any way to get in touch with your wife?”

“I don’t have her telephone. She’s out there in Guyana. I mean, the Ivory Coast.”

“I understand,” she sighed. “Maybe your former wife has girl friends who might know what hospital she was in?”

Malyshev gave her several names, which Nastya carefully wrote down.

“But I’m not sure that this will help you,” he warned. “My wife was very close-lipped and careful, she did not trust anyone, especially women. She tried to keep her relationship with that millionaire a secret and she managed to do it for a pretty long time. If she had shared secrets with her girl friends, it would have been known much sooner.”

“Mr. Malyshev,” Nastya said with a smile. “I don’t want to disillusion you, but the husband is always the last to know. That’s an old clichè. Your circle may have known all about the affair for a while.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m certain that’s not the case.”

Nastya did not know on what he based his certainty, but she did not insist. Why traumatize the man any more?

However her hopes that the friends of docent Malyshev’s former wife would be helpful were shattered. Either they were not very close friends or the lady truly was very secretive, but none of them could name the hospital where she had the abortion. That was understandable, there were a lot of hospitals in Moscow and an abortion was not an occasion to bring a lot of visitors. You were in only three days, sometimes only one. Come in the morning, leave that night – outpatient surgery. There was only one thing to do: check all the hospitals one by one, looking for the one where Anna Malysheva stayed two years ago. Then take the list of all the women who were in the hospital at the same time, and look for one who works for the ambulance service. It was labor intensive, and what was the point? We weren’t looking for a criminal, just a woman who maintained that Solovyov had been beaten. And it isn’t even clear whether she was part of the team that took him to the hospital or whether she had it second-hand from a colleague. Well, and let’s say Nastya finds the woman and determines that Solovyov had been beaten. What then? What did that have to do with the missing boys? Or the madman who stole the videotapes from the kiosk? Nothing. And no one would ever let her use precious work time to find out the truth about a former lover who was not mixed up in anything criminal and was not even under suspicion.

But was he really not mixed up in anything or under suspicion?

Nastya Kamenskaya was not one who was afraid to tell herself the truth.

* * *

“Don’t bug them,” Victor Gordeev said angrily. “And don’t let them know your ideas.”

He had been in a foul mood in the morning, calming down a bit by evening, but there was still weary irritation in his voice.

Nastya had prepared a memo that morning with a list of preliminary measures for the search for the thief of the videotapes from the kiosk, and she had come in to see her boss and find out what, if anything, had been done about her memo. It turned out that almost nothing was done. Interdepartmental politics had gotten in the way. The video theft was small potatoes, local precinct stuff, and there was no way it could be of concern to Petrovka, CID headquarters, without some weighty reasons. Both Gordeev and Nastya had their reasons, but the problem was that the precinct administration did not report directly to them. And Colonel Gordeev was categorically opposed to making those reasons known to his bosses and demanding that the cases be connected.

“You have to understand,” he explained to Nastya, “that we are the only ones who know that the disappearance of the nine boys is the work of one person. And we don’t know that for sure, we merely suspect it. There are four of us. Korotkov, Seluyanov, and you and me. That’s it. Do you know what can happen if we make our dubious suspicions known? If we even hint today that among the masses of missing boys there is a group with Semitic features, all the scandal rags will print front-page stories tomorrow about an anti-Semitic underground organization at work in Moscow. What do those newspapers want? Circulation! And they’ll use whatever they can – unchecked information, unfounded rumors, outright lies. Just to get readers, who want a spicy story. Can you imagine what will happen next? The Jewish community in Moscow will be in a panic. They’ll demand emergency measures and insist that the authorities are not protecting them because they are Jewish. You can’t go off half-cocked, my dear, in such delicate matters. I’m not sure that we have enough wise and subtle politicians in the city to cool off a brewing scandal without insulting anyone. The ethnic issue is always a problem. A tough one. It takes spiritual sensitivity, patience, and far-sightedness. And all our words that this is a maniac at work who simply likes boys who look like that no matter their nationality will be a cry in the wilderness. No one will hear it, because there will be lots of people who will benefit from reducing the problem to an ethnic issue and blowing it up to an enormous scandal. Elections aren’t far away, don’t forget.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Nastya sighed. “But the precinct isn’t going to look for this thief. I mean really look for him. He’s not important to them.”

“What about the fellow who was smart enough to check the film credits? He seems intelligent. Do you think he won’t be able to manage it?”

“Who’ll let him!” She made a hopeless gesture with her hand. “No one will understand why he cares about this kiosk robbery. It’s a petty crime. They’ll load him up with a million other things, and he’ll forget all about the thief in two days.”

“Well, then, let’s trick them,” Gordeev proposed.

“How?”

“What district is that?”

“Western. Around the Molodezhnaya metro station. ”

“Do we have any of our cases there?”

“Two,” Nastya said, figuring out what her boss had in mind. “Seluyanov has a corpse, and Igor Lesnikov had another. Seluyanov’s murder had expensive things, paintings and jewelry stolen from the apartment. Will that do?”

“It will. You catch on fast,” Gordeev said, praising her.

A half hour later he had arranged to have a police officer from the Western district to follow the trail of the stolen goods. The very one he wanted. And now no one could blame the young officer for following the orders of the detectives from Petrovka.

Nastya put off meeting him until tomorrow and went to see Solovyov.

* * *

“Come on,” Nastya said jokingly, as she sat in the comfortable armchair, “tell me how much you missed me.”

“A lot,” Solovyov said in the same bantering tone.

He seemed a bit different today, not like he had been on his birthday. In a dark blue sweater, hair rumpled and eyes laughing, he was more like the Solovyov she used to know many years ago – confident, happy with life, always ready for a joke and a smile.

Andrei was not home, he had gone to the publishing house to pick copies of the new book. Without him around, Nastya felt much freer. She could not handle hostility, even well-hidden hostility. They settled in the living room, bringing coffee and sandwiches from the kitchen. Nastya was going to offer to make dinner, since there was a lot of food, but said nothing figuring that the assistant would not be happy seeing someone else taking charge.

“Did you miss me?” Vladimir asked.

“A little,” she said with a smile. “In between urgent work, negotiations, and preparing contracts. Are we going to talk about us or can we pick a more interesting topic?”

“Our relationship is the most interesting. Isn’t it?”

Nastya gave Solovyov a close look. Was he seriously planning to make her fall for him again? What conceit!

“Probably,” she agreed. “But you know that you can’t step into the same river twice. We’ve both changed. So there’s no point in talking about our former relationship, and we don’t know each other well enough to talk about a new one. If we do decide that our present relationship is a subject for discussion, then we need to talk about each other.”

“You’re impossible!” Solovyov laughed. “You’ve lost all your romanticism over the years and you’ve become terribly dry, businesslike, and terrifyingly logical. Why do you think that I’ve changed? I’m the same. I’m exactly the same Solovyov that you used to love.”

“That can’t be,” she noted gently. “Many things have happened in your life over the years and in mine. And it’s left its mark – a quite noticeable one, I might add. You’ve lived through a tragedy, losing your wife. You’ve become rich and rather famous. How can you say that you haven’t changed?”

“You’re right about the money, but I doubt that I’m famous.”

“What about the wife and illness?” Nastya thought. “Pretending not to have heard? Why? Why are you avoiding the discussion?”

“No doubts about it,” she replied quickly. “The readers know you.”

“What makes you say that?”

Nastya saw unfeigned interest in his eyes. Solovyov had always been vain and he liked to talk about fame. But in this case he wasn’t acting coy, he really did want to know.

“The doctor in the ambulance that took you to hospital is a big fan of yours.”

Now his face showed anger, his features seemed sharper and frozen, as if he was controlling himself to keep from saying something harsh.

“She started calling up all her friends to tell them that the Solovyov who translates Eastern Best Seller had been viciously mugged on the street. She was so sorry for you. She suffered so much over you.”

Now Nastya was completely sure that the talk of the mugging was true. But why hadn’t it appeared in the reports? This was a serious crime, to leave the victim an invalid. You could get eight years for that. Solovyov was protecting the criminal, that was clear. That’s why he didn’t want to talk about it. Who was it? His son? Maybe. But what about the doctors? They were required to report a viciously beaten patient to the police. Why hadn’t they? Because no one cared anymore. For the last few years nobody did what the law or the regulations demanded. Because everyone was out for himself and didn’t care about anyone else. The country was going to hell in a handbasket.

“She called me then, too,” Nastya continued without a pause, as if nothing were wrong. “Actually, it was then that I started thinking about coming to see you.”

“It was a long think,” he replied dryly. “Almost two years.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It was. I was planning to get married then and I couldn’t decided whether I should come see you. I didn’t know that Svetlana was gone. I thought and thought, vacillating. Then I cooled off somehow, and then there were the wedding preparations and the honeymoon. But you see, I did come.”

“And you did the right thing. You can’t even imagine how happy I am that you are back in my life.”

Nastya could see that he wanted to change to topic and she did not resist. But she had no intention of talking about feelings, either.

“Tell me, please, which of the Oriental books you think is best?” she asked. “I trust your taste. I’ll read whichever you say.”

“Read the whole series, you can’t go wrong. They’re all great. Plot, characters, dialogue.”

“But there has to be one that’s the best,” Nastya persisted. “Your favorite.”

“My favorite? Then read The Blade. But it’s out of print by now, it was hot last year. If you want to read it, I’ll give you my copy.”

“Thanks, I certainly will read it.”

Of course, she would. She’d read The Blade and all the others he translated. Simply to understand why he considered this one his favorite. Tell me which book you like and I’ll tell what you were thinking when you read it.

“Wait!” she said to herself. What are you doing? Why do you need to know what he was thinking and feeling when he translated the book? Are you planning to work on him? Why? Just because he is trying to hide the fact that he was beaten? Get a grip, Anastasia. Be honest: are you interested in him? Are you falling for him again? If so, then you’re a fool, sad to say. If not, then leave him alone and don’t try to get inside his head.

* * *

Gennady Svalov, the officer from the Western District was young and looked more like a New Russian than a traditional policeman. Strong, stocky, and with very short hair, he drove a sweet blue VW and never parted from his cell phone. Nastya knew that each minute on the phone cost a dollar, which made it expensive on a policeman’s salary. The fellow had to be moonlighting somewhere, she thought with disapproval.

“I remember you,” he announced happily. “You ran the criminology course at the police college.”

Quite possible. Every year before the graduates were sent on their first cadet posting, Nastya arranged to give a few practical lab exercises. The point was to find the students who were brighter and did not think in standard ways. After that Gordeev got involved, making sure that they got the pick of the litter for their department. For two reasons: first of all, they were always short-handed, and second, they picked their new recruits from these cadets.

“You took Oleg Meshcherinov as a cadet for your department, remember?” Svalov continued.

She remembered. It was one of her worst memories. Oleg seemed quick and bright in his studies, and she selected him alone from the entire class. But it turned out that Meshcherinov used those qualities not only to fight crime. Oleg became a turncoat, working for the enemy, interfered with the course of an investigation and in the end… Meshcherinov killed Zhenya Morozov, a cop, and Major Lartsev was crippled, and Oleg was dead. They shot at each other, and Lartsev was a better shot. He was good with hand guns. Nastya wondered if Svalov knew the circumstances of his classmate’s death.

She explained her plan for gathering information that might lead to the identification of the film-loving thief. The work was hard and apparently did not elicit Gennady’s enthusiasm. Moreover, it didn’t seem to Nastya that he was following her reasoning very well.

“You mean go to all the rental places?” he drawled unhappily.

“Not only go there, but write down the names of the people who rented the films that interest us.”

“They don’t ask for ID, people can use any name they want.”

“That’s not your problem. First we have to get all the names and then we’ll think about how to use them,” Nastya explained patiently.

“How can you use them if they’re fake?” Gennady wondered sincerely.

Nastya was getting angry. This fellow wanted to take the easy way. Strange, how did he have the sense to check the fourteen films. Did someone else suggest that to him?

“First of all, we don’t know whether the thief used a false name or not. Perhaps he saw no need to do that. Secondly, we don’t even know if he rented any videos at all.”

“Then, you mean, all this work could be for nothing?”

“Maybe,” Nastya said. “But it still has to be done. We’re talking about a possible killer and we have to do anything we can to find him. And remember this, please: don’t talk about this. I mean the missing and dead teenagers. Do you understand?”

She had the feeling that he had understood absolutely nothing. It looked as if they had made a mistake with this Svalov, but it was too late now. He was part of the group and he knew everything about the poor boys. No retreat.

* * *

In the evening, Nastya went to the hospital to visit her sister-in-law. Her brother had done his best, naturally, and Dasha was in a private room with a television set and refrigerator. One look at the young woman’s pale face, Nastya felt a jab in her heart. She could tell that they couldn’t save the baby.

“You’re so young, Dasha dear,” she said gently. “You’re only twenty. You have time to have as many babies as you want.”

“I wanted this one so much,” Dasha whispered. “It was such a marvelous day when Alexander and I… well, you know.”

“Dearest, you and Alexander love each other so much that you’ll have plenty of marvelous days in your life. Please, don’t despair. You’re planning to go to Paris for your anniversary, right? Think how lovely it would be to bring back a baby from Paris.”

“I can’t,” Dasha whispered sadly. “The anniversary is next month. We can’t. The doctor said I have to be careful for three months.”

Tears started flowing from her huge blue eyes, even though Dasha bravely tried to smile with trembling lips. Nastya’s heart ached for her.

“When are they letting you go home?”

“Next week, if there are no complications. I’m sorry.” Dasha sat up and wiped her tears. “I’ll try to stop crying. It’s my own fault, no point in wailing now. I shouldn’t have moved that stupid machine.”

Nastya knew from her husband that the accident happened when Dasha tried moving the washing machine in a burst of housewifely energy. It really was her fault. Though that didn’t make Nastya any less sorry for her.

In the corridor she ran into her brother, who was carrying two huge shopping bags filled with fruit.

“Why don’t you bring her a good book instead?” Nastya said, kissing his cheek. “She needs distraction.”

“I’ve brought her books. She doesn’t want to read.”

“Make her. Are you the husband or what? Use your manly powers. It’s not good for her to lie around all day thinking about the lost baby. And get her home as soon as you can. She’ll sicken here. She just lies around and weeps from morning till night. That’s no good.”

“I know that,” Alexander sighed. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Not especially. Why?”

“Let’s go back in to see Dasha. I’ve been twice today. I’ll just give her the fruit, we’ll sit another ten minutes, and I’ll drive you home.”

They went back in. Dasha, not expecting any more visitors, was weeping inconsolably. It was unbearable to watch. Nastya tiptoed out into the hallway, leaving her brother alone with his weeping wife. About twenty minutes later Alexander came out.

“You’re right,” he said on the stairs. “I have to get her out of here. I’ll go to the chief surgeon tomorrow morning and demand they release her on my recognizance. It’s better for her to be at home, with the baby. Her mother will take better care of her than any doctor. A mother’s care is always best.”

Nastya didn’t doubt that he’d do exactly that. If they refused to release her, he’d bring out the money. Her brother wouldn’t balk at any sum when it came to his wife and son. He was a young and successful entrepreneur, wealthy and certain that money could solve any problem.

On the way to Nastya’s house, he was quiet and then suddenly asked, “Is everything all right with you and Lyoshka?” “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“He seemed tense to me. You haven’t had a fight?” “Alexander, we never fight, you know that. Maybe he was tired.”

“Nastya, don’t try to kid me. I know what your husband is like when he’s tired. He was upset by something.”

“Nonsense,” she said, knowing full well what was upsetting Alexei. Her work with Solovyov. “Why don’t you tell me instead if a lady by the name Yakimova is known in the business world?”

“Yana?”

“Yes, Yanina Yakimova.”

“She’s a tiger.” Alexander smiled for the first time. “Iron grip. Incredibly lucky. And incredibly rich. What do you want with her?”

“Just curiosity. I ran into her husband recently. But please, my interest in her is totally private. I hope you understand that. As far as her husband is concerned, I’m not a detective, but a lawyer.”

“They say he stays at home with the kids. Is that true?”

“It is. He drives them to play group and school, picks them up, cooks meals. Have you ever seen her?”

“Of course. More than once.”

“What’s she like?”

“Watch out! She’s scary. Beautiful. But overwhelming. She’s too tall, too large, too loud, too much hair. If you could reduce her by a third she’d be perfect.”

“Any gossip?”

“How can I put it. Yes and no.”

“Elucidate.”

“It’s not easy,” her brother said with another smile. “For instance, when she succeeded in a deal that should not have worked, according to all the prognoses, it was rumored that she was using illegal methods to coerce her subagents. But it was only rumored, because no one could prove that she hired strongmen or blackmailers to achieve her aims.”

“Maybe there were personal elements in that deal?” Nastya suggested. “Something intimate.”

“No way,” Alexander replied categorically. “No one even hinted at that. Yana has a reputation as the perfect wife. And you wouldn’t have asked if you ever saw her. The man who would make a pass at her would have to be a kamikaze, at least. He would have to be six foot six, weigh 250 pounds, and have about ten million dollars. And be single. And between forty-five and fifty, no older than that. With a masterful personality and a strong hand. That would give him a chance. And where are there any men like that?”

“All right, all right,” Nastya said doubtfully. “Don’t exaggerate. Do you know what her husband is like? Shorter than me, half-bald, sweet and shy. A very nice man. Busy with the children and house. With no personal income, I don’t think.” “Exactly. What does she need another one for? Lovers are supposed to be different from the husbands.”

“You may be right,” she agreed thoughtfully.

They pulled up at her house.

“Come on up,” Nastya invited. “Why should you be all alone at home? Your little Sasha is with Dasha’s parents anyway. ” “Fine,” Alexander said.

It would be hard to believe that the half-siblings had known each other only eighteen months, before that knowing of the other’s existence but never meeting or even speaking on the telephone. Alexander was eight years younger. They had the same father, but different mothers. Their acquaintance began with a rather unpleasant event, but soon grew into a warm mutual liking and then into sincere affection. Nastya and Lyoshka came to love Dasha, at the time Alexander’s girl friend, and later fiancee and wife. Alexander and Nastya were both only children of their parents, and they both eagerly accepted each other – related by blood and similar in looks and personality, despite being brought up in different families. They resembled their father, Pavel Kamensky – tall, fair, thin, with almost colorless brows and eyelashes. Both were on the cold side, slightly cynical, reserved, and ruthless toward themselves. But they both were capable of overwhelming compassion and sympathy for the suffering of their loved ones.

* * *

Nastya couldn’t stand being late. She always tried to leave early, with a cushion for unexpected complications like stuck metros in a tunnel or traffic that would tie up her bus. She made an appointment to meet with Gennady Svalov at Komsomolskaya Station, but she was twenty-five minutes early and she decided to wander around the square outside to check out the multitude of book sellers.

There were a lot of Sherkhan books, they were easy to spot because of their bright and recognizable format. To her surprise, Nastya saw The Blade, the book Solovyov told her was out of print since last year. “Volodya clearly overestimates the series’ popularity,” she thought with a chuckle. She bought one anyway, even though Solovyov had given her his own copy. She would keep this one and return his, rather than risk harming it in some way. While she was at it, Nastya bought another three novels from the Eastern Best Seller series. Solovyov had said that they were all well-written, and she and her husband enjoyed mystery books.

The seller, noting her interest in the series, got into a conversation with her.

“You’re lucky, you bought the last copy of Secret of Time. It’s selling very well, I’ve sold six copies today.”

“How’s the series doing?” Nastya asked.

“Great! You know, people snap it up! They wait for the new ones, they keep asking, and my regulars ask me to put them aside for them.”

“And is this Secret of Time really the last copy?” she asked curiously. “The very-very last copy?”

“For today, yes. They’ll bring more tomorrow. We take three or four of each title for a day’s work. If it’s a popular book, we take more, maybe ten. If they don’t do well, we take one.

“How long have you been selling Secret?”

“Almost a month.”

Nastya walked around the square, looking over the selection in the other stalls. There were copies with the elegant EBS logo everywhere, and all the sellers assured her that the series went like hot cakes. Well then, no wonder Solovyov was rich. Apparently, his fees were better than good. Especially if he didn’t get an outright fee but a royalty based on sales.

Putting the books in her bag, she walked to the rendezvous spot. Gennady was late, it was already five minutes past the time. Nastya made a face. She liked punctuality.

At last, fifteen minutes late, the young policeman showed up. He didn’t even think to apologize and with a businesslike air began pulling papers out of his case. His expression was not very friendly, in fact, it was almost disgusted.

“Here are notes from the registers of thirty video rental places. I killed two days on that.”

“And how many are there in all?” Nastya asked innocently.

“Seventy-four.”

“That means you’ll kill another three days,” she said calmly. “And don’t give me that look as if I made you spend your working hours on my personal problems.”

“I have a very heavy load as it is,” Svalov grumbled.

“Just imagine – so do I. And this maniac wandering the city freely is our headache. Not someone else’s, but yours and mine. Let’s try to keep that in mind all the time, all right?”

Nastya took the papers and went back to Petrovka Street to take care of urgent cases. By the time she got home, it was almost ten. There was a note on the kitchen table: I’m teaching tonight. Dinner is in the oven, don’t be lazy, please, and heat it up. Love.

Lyoshka knew his wife well, no denying it. Nastya’s famous indolence sometimes found paradoxical manifestations, and being too lazy to heat up food was a usual occurrence. If a dish could be eaten cold, she did, and if it really needed to be hot, and Lyoshka wasn’t there to supervise, she preferred a hunk of bread with cheese or sausage and a cup of strong coffee.

The struggle between hunger and laziness lasted about a minute, whereupon Nastya adopted a compromise: she quickly stuffed the traditional sandwich into her mouth and then patiently waited for husband’s return to have dinner with him. With her bread and salami, she got comfortable, stretched out her legs with her feet on another chair and opened the best seller she bought at the railroad station The Blade. The book was beautifully written, the plot developed quickly, and she was captivated from the first few pages.

A while later Nastya noticed that her fingertip, with which she turned pages, had turned black. Was the ink rubbing off? She rubbed with another finger. The white page now had smudges. Nastya brought the book close to her face and sniffed – it had that smell of freshly printed books.

She looked at the publishing information in the back. It was sent to the compositor on January 26, 1995, and signed off for the printer of March 3, 1995. That was over a year ago, and the ink was still rubbing off. And there was the smell. That wasn’t possible. This must be a second printing. But why was the old information on the page? It looked like the leftover print run from last year.

She rummaged in her purse and got out the second copy – the one Solovyov gave her from his shelves. The books were exactly the same, with the same publishing information. But this book did not smell of fresh ink and did not smudge. How could that be if both books were printed at the same time, a year ago?

Then her mind moved to the mathematical. The book seller had told her that popular books went at a rate of ten a day. All right, say five. And how many book stalls were there in Moscow? Around three hundred. Say only two hundred. Five books at two hundred stalls is a thousand a day. How many were printed? The information said 70,000 copies. That’s seventy days of sales. And only in Moscow. But Sherkhan sold books in other cities, too. That information page listed their official dealers – twelve companies in twelve regions of Russia. Assume that half the print run stayed in Moscow and the other half was sent out to the other cities. Thirty-five thousand in Moscow. Thirty-five days of sales. What if they sold five a day only the first week and then it slowed down? But the book seller at the station said that Secret of Time had been in print around a month and he had sold seven books just today. No, it didn’t work. The Blade could not be available on the shelves for a year if they printed only 70,000 copies. It should have stopped selling last May or June. Say, even August. But this was April… Where did this book she bought at the station come from?

The key turned in the lock and Lyoshka was home.

“How was your lecture?” Nastya asked, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder.

“Fine. Why haven’t you eaten, you brazen thing?”

“I was waiting for you. You know I can’t eat alone, it’s too boring. We’ll eat together.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chistyakov snorted. “Good old Lyoshka will heat it up and serve it and then we’ll eat. All right, stay where you are, I know you’re never going to change. What are you reading?”

“An Eastern Best Seller from Japanese-American life.”

“And the second book?”

“Same thing. They’re the same.”

“Did you buy it for someone?”

“No. Listen, let me run something past you.”

Lyoshka had already started reheating the hash and was slicing tomatoes on the cutting board, his back to Nastya.

“I’m listening,” he said without turning.

“You have to look at something.”

“Then wait a bit.”

He finished the salad, wiped his hands on a towel, and came over to the table.

“Take a look at these two books, please,” Nastya asked. “Tell me what you think.”

“Other than the fact that they are exactly the same?”

“Yes.”

Lyoshka opened both books and read the title page closely. Nastya didn’t think there was anything interesting there. On top in black letters was the author’s name, Akira Hakahara. In the middle of the page, the title, The Blade. On the bottom the logo of Sherkhan Books, the face of a roaring tiger.

“But they are different,” he said, looking up in surprise at his wife.

“What makes you say so.”

“They are made differently. This one” – he showed her Solovyov’s copy, “is printed photomechanically, and the other photoelectrically.”

“I don’t see it. What shows that?”

“The letters are colored in different ways. With the photomechanical method, the ink is even, but here, in the second book, you can see that the ink is much paler on the bottom half of the letters than the top. Take a look.”

Now Nastya could see it. Rather, she had seen it before, but a person who didn’t know about printing would not have paid any attention.

“What does it mean?” she asked slowly, realizing that she had come across something important.

“It means that these books are not from the same print run.

By the way, why are you asking? Do you have a suspicion about something?”

“The ink is smudging,” she explained, showing him her blackened fingertip. “It’s completely fresh. But the publishing information says that it was printed a year ago. Oh, Lyoshka, something’s burning!”

“Damn!” He moved to the stove and turned off the flame under the skillet. “The hash is burnt. You and your printing mystery.”

“I’m sorry,” Nastya said piteously. “I didn’t mean to.”

They ate in silence but then Nastya said, “Lyoshka, what is a photomechanical method?”

“Forget it. It’s too long and hard to explain.”

“Make it short and simple, for dummies. Very general. I just want to know what distinguishes one method from the other.” “Why do you care so much?”

“Not so much, but I do want to know. Not for any crime that I’m working on. But you know that I don’t like not understanding.”

“First the manuscript is composed on a computer and an original mock up is made. Then film – slides – is made from the original. Got that?”

“So far.”

“That part is the same for both methods. Then come the differences. With the mechanical process, they make a matrix from the slides. A matrix is good for about fifty thousand prints. If the print run is for more than fifty thousand, they made a second matrix. With electrography, copies are made with photocopying technology. A kind of risograph, if you know what that is.”

“I don’t, but that’s not really important. I’ve grasped the main differences. Lyoshka, why have a print run that’s not divisible by fifty thousand?”

“What do you mean, why? Pass the ketchup, please.”

“Here. I want to know why people print more than fifty thousand but less than one hundred thousand. If you have to make a second set of matrices anyway, why not use them fully. Right?”

“It may not pay,” he said with a shrug. “They may not be able to sell a hundred thousand, so the cost of paper and jackets is wasted and the books will just take up space in a warehouse. Fifty is not enough, a hundred too much. That’s all.”

“Then there’s something else I don’t get. Why print a book by photocopy if you have the matrices for another thirty thousand copies. Are the matrices destroyed once a book has been printed?”

“Depends on the contract. They might, they might not. Why are you hung up on this?”

“Curiosity. Lyoshka, it looks like we have tax evasion here, pure and simple. The publishing house is not as stupid as your wife. They probably use the matrices all the way and print a hundred thousand. But in the information they put seventy thousand, and that’s their tax base. The remaining thirty thousand they sell but don’t pay taxes on. After a while they take the slides and do copies. The publishing information is the same and everybody thinks that they’re still selling remaining parts of the original print run, which was actually completed and taxed. It’s important that the book be a popular one. Good idea, huh?” “Yep,” he agreed. “I just don’t understand what’s it to you. Are you planning to switch jobs and move to the tax police? Or be a publishing lawyer?”

“No, honey, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just solving a puzzle for my mental exercise.”

“Really?” Lyoshka raised his eyebrows. “And here I thought you planning to defend your friend Solovyov, who was being hurt by the big bad greedy publishers.”

She flushed. He was wrong, she hadn’t been thinking of Solovyov at all. Moreover, judging from his lifestyle, the publishers weren’t cheating him. But Lyoshka was suspicious anyway. He seemed hurt, even. How could she have been so clumsy? What had made her discuss these books with him?

“You’re wrong, darling,” she said in a steady voice. “Solovyov has nothing to do with it. It’s a coincidence that it’s his books we’re discussing.”

“Fine,” he said. “If you say so. What are your plans for Saturday? Going to work?”

“No, I’m home tomorrow. I need to use the computer.” “When’s the next visit to Solovyov’s?”

“Lyoshka!”

“Now, now, I’m as cool as a frozen mammoth. I just need to know for the car. When will you need it?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go Sunday afternoon. But if you need the car, I can go tomorrow or Monday.”

“Do what you were planning,” he said. “I’ll be home Sunday.” “Thanks.”

The air was thick with tension and Nastya tried to think of a way of discharging it. But nothing original came to mind.

“Lyoshka, I can’t stand to watch you torture yourself,” she said decisively. “I’ve told you that we’re dealing here with a serious crime. Nine boys have died, teenagers who were missing persons. Somewhere in Moscow or nearby there is a monster who keeps them locked up, pumping them full of drugs, sleeping with them until they die of an overdose. He is crazy, a maniac. Every day I live in horror that more parents will show up to report yet another missing boy. The only lead I have is connected to the place where Solovyov lives. I have to go there, please understand. It’s my duty. It’s my responsibility before the poor parents who wait months for word of their son and find only his corpse. But your feelings are just as important to me. You are my husband, I love you, and for your peace of mind I am ready to do anything. I don’t want you to suffer from baseless jealousy. But if you can’t stop yourself, then I’ll have to stop.” “What are you trying to say?”

“I’ll stop going to Solovyov’s.”

“What about the boys? Their parents?”

“Nothing. Let someone else look for the maniac, someone whose husband isn’t so jealous.”

Lyoshka smiled in chagrin, but with evident relief. He seemed embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, Nastya. I didn’t think it upset you so much. No more, I’ll stop.”

“And I can see Solovyov?”

“As much as you like.”

“And you won’t have fits over it?”

“I will.” He burst out laughing. “Strictly out of stubbornness. To spite you. So that you see what it’s like for me when you’re upset and I don’t know why or how to help.”

“Being difficult, eh?”

Nastya knew it was over. The conflict had been brewing for a week, since last Friday, when she first went to see Solovyov and wish him a happy birthday. Wariness, tension, and cool alienation had hung over the apartment for a week, even though they both behaved normally – calm, peaceful, and amiable. Hidden conflicts are very dangerous, leaving permanent wounds, despite the absence of shouting, yelling, or other loud and colorful manifestations. She remembered a line from a section of The Blade she had just read: “A person with sad eyes is a person who never cried as a child when scolded or beaten.” The line seemed vaguely familiar, but Nastya wasn’t in a mood to dig around in her memories.