Operatives Marat Valeyev and Ivan Mayorov were walking down a hallway of the Investigative Committee building. Even their gaits suggested their different personalities. Fit and charming, Valeyev held himself upright and took precise, measured steps. His eyes, however, automatically darted to every pair of passing legs belonging to his female coworkers. On the other hand, tall and dirty-blond Vanya Mayorov wavered constantly between a long stride and a short one. He kept trying to get his partner’s attention.
“Marat, Galya insists that we give you some money for your apartment.” When Ivan spoke, his powerful arms seemed to aid him in finding the necessary words.
“It’s your apartment, Vanya. You’re living in it. Anyway, you’re paying to feed that insatiable feline specimen – that’s enough for me.”
Twenty-eight-year-old Ivan Mayorov had found true love for the first time in his life. His beloved was Police Lieutenant Galya Nesterova, who worked the passport desk in the same building. Vanya was prepared to propose formally, but Galya kept trying to put it off: “Let’s at least wait until you make captain, Mayorov. Then we can commit to a mortgage.” Initially, Vanya and Galya had been renting an apartment on the outskirts of Moscow, but then they quarreled with the landlord after he raised the rent unexpectedly. Valeyev came to their aid, offering them his tiny studio. By that time, Marat had already basically moved in with Elena Petelina and would only stop by his apartment to feed Genghis, his tomcat.
“It’s just too awkward, Marat. We’ve been living there a month already and haven’t given you a dime.”
“Forget it! I was on vacation for two weeks. Someone would’ve had to take care of that cat anyway. How’s old Genghis doing without me?”
“Can’t say he’s had the time to give you much thought. I now understand what the expression ‘as anxious as a tomcat in March’ means. Genghis slips out of the window every night to go prowling. He can’t get enough. You know how fiercely he looks at Galya when she does her morning exercises?”
“Be vigilant, Vanya. Don’t leave your woman in such a situation. Genghis is a real dog!”
“Get out of here!” Vanya noticed the glint of mockery in Valeyev’s eyes and pushed his partner in the shoulder. “Watching Genghis, I start feeling a little like an animal myself.”
“Just a little? Certain women are convinced that men are pure animals and nothing more,” Marat recalled a recent barb of Elena’s. “The only difference is that we’ve learned how to dress ourselves.”
As he related this to his partner, Marat opened the door with a stencil that announced “Senior Detective E.P. Petelina.”
The mistress of the office overheard the last phrase, nodded to the operatives and, without interrupting her work, remarked, “A famous scientist claims that a lion’s behavior and a man’s behavior have much more in common than that of a man and a woman.”
“At least he chose to illustrate his comparison with the noble lion,” muttered Valeyev.
“He was just flattering you guys.”
“We should also establish whether this supposed scientist is a man himself or one of those…” Vanya pursed his lips effeminately in imitation of a homosexual applying makeup.
“Here, I’ll give you his address,” Petelina reached for her address book with a very serious face.
“Why?”
“So you can check out your theory. You can meet him mano-a-mano and conduct an investigative experiment, as it were. Make sure to videotape it, so we can all be sure.”
“I’m certain you’ll take a liking to him,” Valeyev piled on.
Vanya widened his eyes, noticed his partner’s barely-restrained laughter and frowned.
“Detective Petelina…”
“Alright, you have learned to dress yourself!” Petelina flashed a smile and looked up strictly. “I hope that in this case, you’ve come to pay me a visit in your capacity as operatives. What’s your report on that assignment I gave you? Where’s the pimp Boris Manuylov?”
“He didn’t come home last night,” replied Valeyev. “The insert in the door was there this morning.”
“You think he’s panicked?” the detective mused, twirling the pencil in her hand. “I swung by the morgue that they took Ekaterina Grebenkina to. Interviewed the orderlies. Two men came by to see the deceased; neither of them resembled Manuylov. The first was aged about thirty with a prickly look and short hair. He said he was her friend. The second one was about sixty with a cane – a real, old-fashioned aesthete.”
“The murderer is unlikely to show up at the morgue.”
“Unless he needs to get some vital clue. Both of these guys were interested in the girl’s belongings, particularly her purse. It’s a good thing we have it. I checked its contents but didn’t see anything very interesting.”
“Perhaps the murderer’s fingerprints?”
“I already submitted it for tests.”
“Detective Petelina, are you certain that this is a murder case?” Mayorov asked doubtfully. “After all, there was a similar suicide earlier. The second girl could have just jumped out of desperation.”
“She didn’t jump. She fell backwards.”
The desk phone rang. Petelina picked it up, recognized the caller and put him on speakerphone.
“It’s Dr. Lopakhin, the medical examiner,” she explained to the operatives.
“I completed the autopsy. You’ll have the full report within the hour. For now, I can tell you the following,” reported Lopakhin. “The blood alcohol level correlates to one hundred grams of strong liquor, no more. There are multiple internal fractures that are indicative of the fall she suffered. Cause of death was a severe blood hemorrhage in the brain and was basically instantaneous. I also examined her fingernails as you requested. I found nothing that suggested that the girl struggled for her life. And another thing: I found particles of what looks like cement among the hairs on her nape. I collected them so that your Tadpole, as you call him, can run tests on them.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lopakhin.”
“Don’t thank me for my infernal work. The older I get, the younger become those who end up on my table. There’s no justice in it,” Lopakhin sighed. “Am I showing my years?”
“You’re just reminding us that if a victim pays a visit to your table, then we must make sure that the guilty party pays a visit to the defendant’s bench.”
“Godspeed your search, Lenochka. Good luck.”
The medical examiner said his farewells.
“According to Ustinov’s findings,” Petelina explained to the operatives, “the bottle was first opened on the roof. It’s missing about three hundred grams of brandy, and the victim, as we just heard, only drank one hundred.”
“So someone else was definitely up there
