The Stylist

She caught herself thinking about Solovyov with pleasure. And of the fact that she would go sec him again tomorrow.

“You are wrong, Anastasia,” she said wearily to herself. “You should be working, but you keep thinking about pleasure. Toss that out of your head, you’re not of an age when mistakes are easily forgiven. Especially, the second time around.”

Nastya finished the salad, washed her bowl, stood under a hot shower for a quarter hour to relax and warm up, and crawled into bed. She was going to call her husband’s parents in Zhukovsky – maybe he had gone to see them. She was reaching for the phone when she stopped herself. Don’t. He might think she was checking up. And what if he weren’t there and his parents didn’t know where he was? Whatever else she may want, “catching” Lyoshka was not one of her goals. Not because she was a hundred percent sure of his fidelity. Alexei was a normal male who could fall for a beautiful, interesting, sexy woman, so unlike Nastya, who was unattractive, cool, and absolutely without sex appeal. From the point of view of probability, it was quite possible, but Nastya never felt that she had to know about it. What for? Of her almost thirty-six years, she had known Chistyakov twenty. More than half her life. They would grow old together, they would always be together, and no matter what happened, they would be best friends. This assertion had been tested by time and was unimpeachable. And then, was she herself without guilt? Certainly not.

In other words, she did not call Lyoshka’s parents. But just as she was putting out the light, the phone rang.

“Nastya?” asked an uncertain voice.

It was Pavel Kamensky, Alexander’s father. And Nastya’s, naturally.

“Yes, it’s me,” she said, trying to hide her surprise.

Kamensky senior rarely called. He divorced Nastya’s mother when Nastya was very small, and he communicated with his daughter on major holidays and then by phone. Of course, after Nastya became friends with Alexander, his son by a second marriage, and Alexander’s wife, Dasha, Pavel started calling more frequently. But he was still a total stranger as far as Nastya was concerned – she felt nothing for him, neither warmth nor dislike. Nastya adored her mother’s second husband, her stepfather, and had called him “Papa” all her life. Pavel Kamensky did not really exist for her.

“Nastya, I’m calling to warn you.” He stopped for a bit. “There’s a problem with little Dasha, and your Alexei went to help Alexander.”

“What’s the matter with Dasha?” Nastya asked quickly.

“Well, it’s, uh, well —” Kamensky muttered, but Nastya understood.

Dasha was pregnant, in her fourth month. She must have miscarried.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. Alexander called about two hours ago from the hospital. He said that Alexei had to bring some important doctor. He asked me to call you so that you wouldn’t worry. Don’t be angry, Nastya, that your husband was called out of the house at night, but Alexander is in such a panic, he’s so worried about Dasha. Can Alexei stay with him a bit. Is that all right?”

“It’s fine. Thanks for calling,” Nastya said.

“Thanks for calling today instead of tomorrow,” she added mentally. “I’ve been home an hour. If I were a different person, I would have gone nuts in the last hour wondering where my husband had gone without warning, without even a note. And you, daddy dear, instead of calling every five minutes trying to catch me the minute I walk in so that I’m spared worry, call only now. Were you watching a movie on TV? Lucky for you that I’m a calm person and don’t panic at the drop of a hat. ‘A problem with little Dasha…’ You never called me little Nastya. I’m not jealous, God knows. Dasha is a marvelous creature, a living miracle with blue eyes, I love her myself and I can’t imagine a person who wouldn’t love her. But I’m your daughter. Or am I? Am I just the child of a woman you used to be married to, accidentally, stupidly, and for a very short time?”

It wasn’t interesting thinking about Kamensky, he meant too little in Nastya’s life. She was much more worried about her sister-in-law’s health. Their first child, little Sasha, was under a year old, born in early June. Nastya had not been so sure that it was a good idea for Sasha to have a second baby so soon. But she really wanted a girl. And Alexander was so happy! Poor Dasha, it would be a pity if she lost the baby. However, she was still young. Twenty. She’d be able to have a dozen more if she wanted. The important thing was for nothing serious to happen that would affect her ability to conceive and carry full term.

So, Lyoshka was somewhere at a hospital with Alexander. Well, that was a good idea, Lyoshka was a rational and calm person, sometimes too much so, but in this case it was just what was needed to restrain panicky Alexander. And he did have superior physicians among his friends. He had once worked halftime at a medical technology institute, developing diagnostic computer programs. Ever since then Lyoshka had a wide circle of medical friends. He must have brought a luminary with him. Nastya imagined Alexander calling and shouting that Dasha was hemorrhaging and he didn’t know what to do. Dasha was dying! Alexander Kamensky had the amazing ability to see the worst-case scenario and think that the situation was beyond repair. Interestingly, this did not extend to his business. It appeared only in regards to Dasha. He was probably madly in love with her, losing his reason when something happened to her. Naturally, Lyoshka rushed off to help his brother-in-law and handle things. No time for notes.

Suddenly Nastya put on the light and reached for the phone. She had dialed Solovyov’s number before she could answer the question: why was she calling?

“Did I wake you?” she asked guiltily when she heard his soft voice.

“No, I go to bed late.”

“How are things?”

“Fine, thanks. Is that why you called?”

“To tell the truth, I don’t know why I called. But apparently, it was something I really wanted to do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have done it.”

“Makes sense,” he chuckled. “Even in such subtle and emotional issues you seek to operate on logic. How are things with you?”

“Fine. As usual.”

“Are you at home?”

“Of course. Where else would I be at this time of night?” “What about your husband? Aren’t you worried that he might hear you talking to me?”

“No. If I were afraid, I wouldn’t have called.”

“More logic. In any case, I’m glad you called.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She heard the intonation in his voice that used to make her head spin.

“Man gets used to good things very quickly,” Solovyov went on. “The day before yesterday you called me, yesterday you visited, and today I had the feeling that something was missing. You called just now and I realized what it was. I miss you.”

“Me too,” she said with a smile. “I’ll come over tomorrow if you don’t have any other plans.”

“What time?”

“Around eight. Is that all right?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

“Kisses,” she said softly. “Good night.”

There, Solovyov. You miss me already. And why? Let’s not think about me, I’ve always been a sucker where you were concerned. But you? You didn’t even think me human. I was nothing more than a dangerous daughter of my mother, someone who could cause a lot of trouble if not handled properly. A device. Back then, you were afraid of my mother, and you were afraid that if you rejected me, your advisor would be angry, and if you had an affair with me, she would bring up questions of divorce and marriage to me. You did not love me and did not want to marry me. But it never occurred to you that my mother would never hear of our affair. You were sure that I told her everything. Actually, I never had that habit. Mother learned about it many years later and, I must say, was very surprised. In other words, afraid of my mother, you started sleeping with me, and even more afraid of her, you broke it off. But now, a relationship with me is not threat to you at all. You’re not married, and I am. Therefore, you are insured against matrimonial demands from my side. And if they did come up, your illness is your best defense. No one could force you to marry anyone. So you can flirt. Your life is boring and lonely now, and even though you pretend not to need anyone, it’s not true. You were always the life of the party, the center of attention, and you can’t break the habits of a lifetime in just two years. You need to have a person who loves you around. And your feelings don’t matter here. You could deceive to get what you want. You say that you miss me? Perhaps. Tomorrow you’ll start acting as if you cared about me. And that won’t be true. You will pretend so that I keep coming back, so that you can feel my love once again, sense it and breathe it. You’re an emotional vampire. God, I used to love you so much.

Chapter 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.