happily identify you!”
“I only wanted to scare him a little! Someone shot me and my finger twitched!”
“Who was the third person in the pimp’s car? Do you know him?”
“Some guy aged about fifty. I heard him refer to the whore as his daughter. He too had a gun on him. He shot me and wounded me in the shoulder.”
“Alright. Now let’s talk about your wound. Where were you treated?”
“You don’t have to worry about that. My mother came to pick me up. She is a doctor and she won’t say anything. The bullet merely grazed me. I feel better already.”
“Better,” the lawyer shook his head acerbically. “You’re in it now!”
“Mr. Gomelsky, will you be able to defend Aleksey?” asked the worried general. “He isn’t guilty. The whore’s father fired first.”
“If you are so certain about his innocence, you are welcome to file a confession.”
“Mr. Gomelsky, I am coming to you as a professional. This is all at least partially my fault. Please help us. I am ready to pay whatever you like.”
“Okay. I know a thing or two from taking on criminal cases in St. Petersburg. The lesson here is that, right after the accidental shooting, you should have called me! It’s far cheaper to solve the problem by dealing with the operatives when they’re first collecting evidence in the field. No evidence – no case – no problem! But now, much will depend on which detective is assigned to the case. Some of them are amenable, while others… But okay! First thing to do is find out who it is.”
The lawyer got his phone, stepped out into the kitchen and shut the door tightly behind him. He returned ten minutes later.
“I have good news and bad news. The murder investigation has been assigned to Elena Petelina – the same Noose I was telling you about earlier. That’s the bad news. Be assured that she will trace the gun and identify your son.”
“What’s the good news?” the general asked, refusing to give up hope.
“The good news is that I am acquainted with Lena Petelina. And our relationship was not limited to work.”
“Can she be bribed?”
“Don’t judge others’ standards by your own,” Gomelsky replied with sudden abruptness. “Money is not the only thing in life. Now, please clarify your intentions for me. What the hell did you need to find a prostitute and her pimp for? And don’t go spinning any tall tales.”
Bayukin the father and Bayukin the son exchanged glances. Alex spoke first:
“Dad wanted me to find an envelope.”
“The cheap bitch stole it.” Bayukin Sr. stepped over to the bookcase. “It was right here, tucked between the books like some trifle, when in fact…”
“I didn’t find it among the whore’s things. The pimp had it.” Alex nodded in the direction of the coffee table, in the center of which lay a blank, white envelope.
“You brought it home from the murder scene?” Gomelsky inquired and shook his head emphasizing the stupidity of such a deed.
He put on some gloves, picked up the envelope gingerly by its corner and shook out its contents. A maroon passport issued by the Republic of Bulgaria fell out onto the table. The lawyer opened it carefully. A man with an untamed mane of hair, reminiscent of the kind that rock musicians prefer, looked out from the photograph. Gomelsky read the Bulgarian name and surname. The lawyer’s grim eyes fixed themselves on Bayukin Jr.
“Whose passport is this?”
“The pimp’s. That’s his mug. The bastard bought it so he could go to Europe without a visa. Or maybe he decided to scram under some stranger’s name.”
“Congratulations! You’ve helped uncover an imposter!” Gomelsky praised Alex without bothering to hide his sarcasm. Am I to understand that you committed homicide over this envelope? And then brought the evidence home with you?”
“I’ll burn the passport.” General Bayukin tore the document in half. “It’s a blunder. This isn’t the envelope that Katya stole from me.”
17
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
