forgot about the house. That’s the best option for the murderer. Neighbors might be able to see into the yard. But this way, you shoot her, get her keys and drag the body into the house.»
«Maltseva couldn’t have managed that on her own.»
«Who said she acted alone? In this line of work, best always assume the worst.» Valeyev nodded in the direction of the house. «Here’s the plan. I’ll get the door, while you cover me through the window.»
The operatives stomped along the grass to the house and split up. Mayorov turned the corner. The curtains were drawn. The operative looked into the first window from his great height. The living room was empty. The next window showed the living room from a different angle. He could see the door to the entryway. For a moment, Vanya thought he caught a slight motion among the pane’s tessellated reflections, as if someone had darted past quickly and quietly.
On the other side of the house, Marat Valeyev ascended the stairs and tried the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. And not only that but, when he pulled, the door swung toward him with such ease that it was almost like someone was pushing it from inside. This boded danger. Before the captain could pull his service weapon, the blonde’s body fell onto him. He had been caught off guard for just a second, but this lost moment turned out to be fateful.
Vanya heard a sharp scream of pain and the sound of someone falling. His hand automatically whipped out his service weapon. He could swear that the scream had been Valeyev’s.
15
The same entrance lobby to a once-desirable, Stalin-era apartment building; the same stairwell with its tattered steps; the same apartment with the tall front door. Only now, there are no smoking cops. There are no napping operatives, nor careworn EMTs. There are no curious inhabitants peeking from the safety of their apartments. Gone is the dead man with his staved-in head. Gone are the vacant eyes, the slumped shoulders of the main suspect. And, more notably for Elena, gone from her chest is the onerous feeling she gets every time she first enters a crime scene. It is the feeling of running in endless circles: one more murder; the world is no better for it; man has killed man, again.
Detective Petelina turned away from the shut door to the Maltsevs’ apartment and rang the neighboring doorbell. Earlier in the day some new questions for the main witness, Lyubov Broshina, had occurred to Elena. The detective had not, however, considered it necessary to summon the elderly lady to the Investigative Committee officially.
A dog’s muffled bark answered the doorbell. The peephole dimmed, a series of locks clicked in ascending order, the security chain stretched taught and Petelina was confronted by a slice of a woman’s face. A second passed and its severe wrinkles softened. The retiree recognized the detective.
«Oh, it’s you… The husband came back this morning.» Broshina cast an unkind look at the Maltsevs’ front door. «Rumpled coat, hair all greasy – it’s too bad I couldn’t make out his face. Wonder whether he’s happy or not – the jackass. Calm down, Chana, heel! This is a nice lady.»
The shaggy little dog at the elderly woman’s feet fell silent. Its fur’s chalky whorls bore a passing resemblance to the white curls on its mistress’s head.
«Actually, I’ve come here to ask you about Maltsev one more time, Ms. Broshina.»
«Sure,» the elderly woman replied eagerly through the crack.
«Maybe, I could…» Petelina indicated the security chain politely.
«Oh, but of course. Come in.» Broshina let the detective enter. «Put on these slippers. I’m sick to death of cleaning up after Chana. She’s old and molting. We’re the same age now, she and I.»
«She’s a lovely dog.» Elena smiled into the dog’s toothy grimace.
«Maltsev called a cleaning service. Two guys came out in coveralls and with chemicals. They won’t wash away any of your evidence will they?»
«Don’t worry. Our forensic expert already got everything,» Elena assured her, following the elderly lady into the kitchen.
«I’ll put a little tea on. I only have yesterday’s brew, but it’s a good one.»
Noise from the kettle filled the kitchen and thin, porcelain teacups – produced from the sideboard for the occasion – alighted triumphantly onto their saucers. Teaspoons clinked next to them. As none of these sounds boded anything of promise to the old dog, Chana curled into a sullen ball on the handmade cover of one of the chairs.
«Have you figured out who the victim was yet?»
«Yes. It was Mr. Maltsev’s brother, Anton. Did you know him?»
«Had I known him, I would have recognized him. I remember now that he had come by before. I saw him once or twice. But, back then he was alive, whereas yesterday…»
«Is it possible that Inna Maltseva had an intimate relationship with Anton?»
«I don’t like to speculate about what I don’t know. But I doubt it. Inna wasn’t like that. She just wanted kids. All she ever did was spend time in doctors’ offices.»
«Could she have mistaken one brother for another?»
«Well, we all did at first. I thought it was Dmitry too.»
«Ms. Broshina, what can you tell me about the Maltsevs’ family life? Typically, when these kinds of murders take place, the motive lies somewhere in the relationship between the spouses. Disputes, quarrels, cheating. I’m sure you know what I mean.»
«Sure I do. What’s not to understand?» nodded the retiree. «Private life, conflict, cheating. I watch the TV shows – God only knows what doesn’t happen on them.»
«And the Maltsevs? How did they get on together?»
«The Maltsevs have been my neighbors for ten years. Inna used to be a teacher, just like me. I taught history – social science. Did it long enough to become a principal. As soon as Inna married Maltsev, she transferred to my school – it’s the local one over there. I retired two years after she arrived. She quit not much later, but we went on being friends. So there are some things about her that I do know. She didn’t have a very easy life, you know.»
«You don’t say?»
«Let me just tell you…»
Half an hour later, Detective Petelina knew all about the tragic miscarriages of Inna Maltseva. She listened attentively to the heartrending tale of how poor Inna went from doctor to doctor and stayed in various hospitals, while her husband ran around wooing some painted trollop, the jackass. Ms. Broshina had caught them leaving an expensive restaurant and had even told Inna about it.
«Inna just waved me off, saying that her husband had a business meeting. Business! What business? I saw him myself. He was drunk and ogling her and pawing at her waist like a bear at a beehive. If there hadn’t been people around, I bet he’d have summoned the temerity to slip his hand under her skirt… But, of course, if a wife doesn’t want to know the truth about her husband, there’s no point on insisting on it. So I stopped mentioning it to Inna – even though I saw him bring the bimbo home. Twice, in fact.»
«When
