you remember. A good age to get out of dodge, before it’s too late. I’ve already submitted the paperwork for my discharge. I’ll retire on my pension, buy a house in Lithuania and apply for citizenship. I won’t be taking anything with me. You’ll get this apartment which, may I remind you, is in a prestigious generals’ building. I’ve already hired a lawyer to deal with any problems that may crop up. His name is Denis Gomelsky. He’s preparing the documents as we speak. All you have to do is sign them and the apartment is yours! I’ll also see to it that you’re transferred to a post here in the city. There are two options – ”
“What options! Are you even aware that I was concussed in a blast? That I have PTSD? I spent two months lying around the hospital; then, a week ago, I got a medical discharge!”
“It’s that serious?”
“There are times when it all comes rushing back and…” Alex glared and knocked on his head bitterly. “It’s like there’s a worm in my head. And then I’m ready to tear everyone apart!”
“Alright, alright. There are good positions available in civilian life too. We’ll think of something.”
The general poured some water in his glass and drank it slowly, furrowing his eyebrows.
“One more thing.” Bayukin Sr. looked up at his son. “I’ll be honest with you. Gomelsky, the lawyer, warned me that if the investigation turns towards me, they may search the place. I need to get rid of any incriminating evidence. I don’t keep any money or valuables around here; however, the envelope… It’d be better if you take it and stay with your mother for a bit.”
“What envelope?”
“The one I mentioned. The one that’s better than money. I got rid of two others – but this third one is the most valuable.”
“I don’t understand a damn thing.”
The general smiled slyly.
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
Father and son entered the spacious living room. The general approached the bookshelf. He pushed apart two books, froze for a second, and then began to frantically riffle through the neighboring volumes.
“What the hell? Where is it?” he exclaimed. “It was here just yesterday!”
Books began tumbling from the shelves onto the floor. Once the bookshelf was empty, Bayukin Sr. dropped his arms.
“The envelope isn’t here. It’s vanished.” He thought for a moment. “Katya! It couldn’t have been anybody else.”
“Who’s Katya?” Seeing the state his father was in, Alex became worried himself.
“The prostitute. She was here last night and left this morning. She was the only one who could have taken the envelope!” The general grabbed his son pleadingly. “Alex, you have to find the envelope and get it back. This is insanely important! No one knows who you are. You can act freely. I can’t stand out.”
“What do you mean by ‘freely?’”
“Kill the bitch, if you have to – just get that envelope!”
“It’s that valuable?”
“I’ll pay you half-a-million rubles.”
“What about the apartment? Is it mine too?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, alright then. How can I find her?”
“Okay, remember this: She’s young – about twenty-something. She has a nice figure: tits, waist, ass – everything’s in the right place and in proper proportion too. She’s about up to your nose in height. She’s got wavy black hair that reaches below her shoulders. Dark, hazel eyes. Puffy lips and a straight nose. On the whole, she’s a sultry little piece. She was wearing a red jacket with fox fur last night – and knee-high boots.”
“Better tell me where the hell I’m going to find her!”
“Right.” The general grabbed his phone. “There’s a surefire way to locate her. I can find out where she went after she left.”
4
It was not difficult to locate the scene of the incident amid the residential block of cookie-cutter apartment buildings. Elena Petelina parked her car and made her way to the onlookers gathered at the police tape. The police tape had been stretched in a square plot abutting the wall of the sixteen-story building. Zooming off on his motorcycle, Senior Lieutenant Mikhail Ustinov, the forensic expert, had of course beaten the detective to the scene. His large curly head could be seen fussing over a silver Skoda, upon which lay the body of a young woman.
Homicide had christened Mikhail Ustinov with the nickname “the Tadpole.” He was now occupied with taking photographs and dictating his observations to a detective named Egorov, who had arrived to the scene of the incident from the local police precinct.
“Deceased is a young female, aged 20—23. Height approximately 5’5”. Hair color is black, wavy and shoulder-length.” The expert’s fingers, sheathed in latex gloves, pried open the eyelids of the dead woman. “Eye color is hazel, nose is straight, mouth is medium-sized, lips are puffy. The deceased is wearing a leather jacket with a fox-fur lining. I’m not going too fast, am I?”
Egorov placed the folder with the report on the car’s trunk so he could write better and nodded for the Tadpole to go on.
Elena Petelina examined the dead woman. Having a teenage daughter of her own, she always reacted emotionally to the deaths of young women. The outer garments concealed the inevitable internal damage, but the deathblow had most likely been the back of the woman’s head striking the hood. It had been so violent that bruising had formed on the girl’s face.
Elena looked up to the edge of the roof and tried to imagine the horrid fall. Doing so was vital. Indulging her emotions at the scene of the crime – before anything of substance had been established and any evidence had been gathered – stimulated Elena’s intuition. More than once, the detective had found that her initial impressions served as a constructive impetus to her subsequent investigation. Being able to picture the scene of the crime, remember its attendant smells and sounds, would help her later as she sat working in her office.
Having made a note of her impressions, Petelina stepped away from the car and looked around for Captain Marat Valeyev. Following her recent fight with her ex-husband, she wanted a reliable man by her side. Before she could catch sight of Valeyev, however, she came across his partner Ivan Mayorov. The tall and powerfully-built senior lieutenant was doing his best to restrain a gaunt and irate man of fifty in a polyester jacket and an old-fashioned ushanka hat.
“Detective Petelina!” the operative called to her. “Here is an eyewitness.”
Encountering a strict look from the detective, the man settled down enough for Vanya to release him.
“Who are you?” asked Petelina.
“I am the father. That’s my daughter, Katya Grebenkina.”
Elena’s
