Читать книгу Dangerous Evidence - Сергей Бакшеев - Страница 19

Elena Petelina stapled the preliminary report on Boris Manuylov’s murder scene to her folder. Here were the first pages of her new murder case. Only the goddess of investigation could know how many volumes the folder would grow to – if, that is, the ancient Greeks had ever gotten around to inventing her.

Justice has a goddess: Themis. But who is responsible for bringing the evidence to her scales? There are goddesses of wisdom, memory and vengeance. The ancient Greeks even spared a thought for the criminals. Hermes is considered the patron of wanderers, craftsmen, merchants and thieves. Only the detectives who spend their lives rutting around in search of the truth were overlooked.

A phone call jolted Elena from her mythical musings. Marat Valeyev’s tanned torso appeared on the phone’s screen, while The Beatles’ love ditty filled the office. How far had their romance come! Nowadays, she couldn’t even guess what Marat would bring to her: either it’d be some new findings in the investigation or he’d say that he missed her and was hurrying over to lock the office and crush her in his embrace.

Oh Lord! That already happened – on that narrow couch and on this ample desk. I should change his screen photo, eradicate the temptation.

“Lena, I’m calling from the strip club,” Marat instantly put her at ease.

“What strip club?” It took Elena a second to switch her thoughts and remember that the pimp Boris Manuylov had been murdered outside of the Wild Kitties strip club.

“I’m interviewing the strippers, while Vanya searches them. He’s trying so hard that it’s making him blush.”

“Valeyev, can you be serious please?” demanded Elena, understanding that she was being toyed with.

“Well, speaking seriously, the strippers aren’t here yet. Actually, there’s no one here at all besides some cleaners and the day manager. Both the ladies and the bouncers are sleeping off a busy night. And yet, here I am – on the job, after the exhausting night you and I had – ”

“Oh sure, you worked so hard. Three minutes and he’s out.”

“What? I’m setting a timer next time.”

“Why don’t you reset your head, Marat? We’re at work here.”

“Well, okay. The situation here is looking as follows: There aren’t any cameras in the club or out front of it. Confidentiality and whatnot. But there’s a little park across the street. Vanya did his thing, went over there and chatted up the dog-owners. One unhappy lady, the owner of an old half-blind Cocker Spaniel, really hates the customers of this fine establishment. She doesn’t much take to the fact that men come here to stuff money into the girls’ unmentionables. She avers that all interested parties should be castrated.”

“That sure would lessen my caseload.”

“Her spaniel can’t see a damn thing, but the lady has senile hyperopia and a mean memory.”

“What do you mean by ‘mean?’”

“A mean memory is when you can’t remember the day of the week and yet you manage to record that at 1:25 in the morning, the upstairs neighbor was upbraiding his daughter for coming home too late. Among other things, the talkative lady remembered that the bouncers refused an irate man of about fifty entrance to the club. The man had almost stepped on Joe Cocker, you see.”

“The English singer? What was he doing there?”

“Hmm, how do I put this delicately. He was fertilizing the lawn with his natural emissions. Joe is the name of her Cocker Spaniel… He was wearing a faded ushanka hat of reddish fur.”

“Who? The singer or the spaniel?”

“I mean the guy that wasn’t allowed into the club.”

“Listen Marat, can you speak clearly please?” Petelina became irritated. “Stop distracting me with Joe Cocker.”

“Remember that song of his, the one that was playing when Kim Basinger did her striptease in Nine 1/2 Weeks?”

“Are you implying something? Men can do a striptease too you know.”

“I accept your challenge. First, you can startle me with your dance, and then it’ll be my turn.”

“You might need to work out a bit first.”

“Which muscle am I working out?”

“Marat – we’re pretty off-topic here…”

“Yeah, just like the witnesses. You can’t imagine what it’s like listening to them. The dog lady started telling me about her dead husband, who wore the same exact muskrat hat back in the eighties. Have you figured out who she was talking about yet?”

Hearing the word “husband,” Elena remembered Sergey Petelin, her ex-husband, and not at all Marat, with whom she was currently living. Sergey and she had had the Wedding March, a white dress with a bridal veil, two “I do’s,” and a kiss. He became her first husband, and she had given birth to her wonderful daughter thanks to him.

And yet yesterday Sergey came to me for help, thought Elena. He must be in real trouble to squash his pride and come begging for help.

But she had to work.

“The father of the prostitute,” Petelina answered Valeyev’s question.

“Exactly! The description is a little too close to Mr. Grebenkin, our peculiar eyewitness. Now, note that, in the dog lady’s account, he didn’t go away instantly but lingered, loitering around the club. His presence unsettled aging Joe to the point that the poor guy had to finish his business at home.”

“Enough already with the Cockers and the Spaniels!”

“I’m sorry. Joe is a witness too. The next morning he uncovered the ushanka hat in the little park. The same one that had formerly crowned the agitated patron, the presumable Grebenkin.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go ahead and try finding another one like it in Moscow. And let’s not forget Joe here, who, blind as he is, has preserved his keen sense of smell.”

“Did you write down the woman’s statement?”

“You’re insulting me, Len. I even took possession of the hat.”

“Have it checked for sweat and grease deposits.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about Grebenkin’s sweat and grease deposits. I’m afraid that they’ve been contaminated by Joe’s hair and slobber deposits. The dog, you see, felt it necessary to exact his revenge on the hat of his assailant.”

“Igor Vasilevich Grebenkin, the father of Ekaterina Grebenkina,” Elena Petelina checked her notes. “I recall that he mentioned the pimp and even threatened him.”

“There’s your motive – blood vengeance! Manuylov fell out with his ‘employee’ and pushed Katya off the roof. Then, her distraught father shot him dead.”

“Could be. Here’s what I want you to do. Find and bring Igor Grebenkin to me as quickly as you can.”

“I think the Tadpole took a photo of him. And you wrote down his number.”

“A call from us might scare him off.” As she spoke with Valeyev, the detective began searching the law enforcement databases on her computer. “In the meantime, get Grebenkin’s photo from Ustinov. Have him send it to your phone.”

Petelina could here Valeyev relay her order to Ivan Mayorov. A few minutes later, her computer displayed the results of her search on her screen. The detective’s face lit up.

“Okay. Found it! Last night, an I.V. Grebenkin registered himself into the Sayany Hotel. I sure do enjoy working with amateurs. Get over there, Marat, detain him and bring him to me!”

Having finished talking to Valeyev, Elena Petelina went down to the forensics lab. The first person she saw upon entering was Vasilich, crumpled in his armchair. The eternal habitant of the lab, Vasilich was a human-sized artificial skeleton with a natural human skull. This time, Vasilich was decked out in felt boots, an ushanka hat and mittens. As per custom, a sheet of paper hung from his ribs with a plaintive quip: “This winter is starting to get to me!”

This year’s winter really had distinguished itself with its snowfall and length.

“It’s the second month of spring,” remarked Petelina to Misha Ustinov, who had looked up from his electron microscope upon her entrance.

“Yet it’s summer eternal in Thailand.”

“Envy is one of the criminal motives, Misha. When you take your vacation, you’ll be able to visit the tropics too.”

“Masha is begging me to go to the mountains. She wants to put me on a snowboard.”

“You’re still dating that perky journalist? Your constancy is admirable. How is she doing?”

“She’s closer friends with Vasilich than with she is with me,” the expert nodded his curly head in the direction of the skeleton. “She’s started a blog for him on the Internet. Every week she posts a new photo.”

“You don’t say!”

“She’s gotten more than two thousand followers in two months.”

“But of course: In Russia, true fame comes only after death.”

Petelina glanced from Vasilich back to the Tadpole. People who spent their entire lives behind a computer had the worst posture. Soon enough the Tadpole would become a living copy of Vasilich. It was a good thing that her daughter Nastya didn’t spend her time hunched over the keyboard, preferring to pursue a sport. It was no big deal that she wasn’t a champion; at least her womanly stature was already manifesting itself.

“Listen, Misha, I got this issue for you. You got the evidence from Boris Manuylov’s murder scene?”

“I’m already working on it.”

“How did the night shift do?”