Dangerous Evidence

“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 sure would lessen my caseload.”

“Her spaniel can’t see a damn thing, but the lady has senile hyperopia and a mean memory.”

“What do you mean by ‘mean?’”

“A mean memory is when you can’t remember the day of the week and yet you manage to record that at 1:25 in the morning, the upstairs neighbor was upbraiding his daughter for coming home too late. Among other things, the talkative lady remembered that the bouncers refused an irate man of about fifty entrance to the club. The man had almost stepped on Joe Cocker, you see.”

“The English singer? What was he doing there?”

“Hmm, how do I put this delicately. He was fertilizing the lawn with his natural emissions. Joe is the name of her Cocker Spaniel… He was wearing a faded ushanka hat of reddish fur.”

“Who? The singer or the spaniel?”

“I mean the guy that wasn’t allowed into the club.”

“Listen Marat, can you speak clearly please?” Petelina became irritated. “Stop distracting me with Joe Cocker.”

“Remember that song of his, the one that was playing when Kim Basinger did her striptease in Nine 1/2 Weeks?”

“Are you implying something? Men can do a striptease too you know.”

“I accept your challenge. First, you can startle me with your dance, and then it’ll be my turn.”

“You might need to work out a bit first.”

“Which muscle am I working out?”

“Marat – we’re pretty off-topic here…”

“Yeah, just like the witnesses. You can’t imagine what it’s like listening to them. The dog lady started telling me about her dead husband, who wore the same exact muskrat hat back in the eighties. Have you figured out who she was talking about yet?”

Hearing the word “husband,” Elena remembered Sergey Petelin, her ex-husband, and not at all Marat, with whom she was currently living. Sergey and she had had the Wedding March, a white dress with a bridal veil, two “I do’s,” and a kiss. He became her first husband, and she had given birth to her wonderful daughter thanks to him.

And yet yesterday Sergey came to me for help, thought Elena. He must be in real trouble to squash his pride and come begging for help.

But she had to work.

“The father of the prostitute,” Petelina answered Valeyev’s question.

“Exactly! The description is a little too close to Mr. Grebenkin, our peculiar eyewitness. Now, note that, in the dog lady’s account, he didn’t go away instantly but lingered, loitering around the club. His presence unsettled aging Joe to the point that the poor guy had to finish his business at home.”