“You know he is dead,” said Rostnikov, trying to find a comfortable angle for his bionic leg.
“Yes. I heard,” said Tutsolov. “Someone beat him with a rock near the river a few nights ago.”
“He was shot,” said Rostnikov. “Not beaten. He and three others, Jews.”
Tutsolov nodded. “The last time we talked, months ago, Igor said he had grown interested in Judaism. I tried to talk him out of it.”
“You don’t like Jews?” asked Rostnikov.
“Not particularly,” said Tutsolov, “but I don’t feel strongly about it, and I seldom give it even a fleeting thought.”
“Perhaps you were right to try to talk him out of it,” said Rostnikov with a sigh of understanding. “My wife is Jewish. My son is half Jewish, but I’m told that according to the Jews if the mother is Jewish, the child is Jewish. Here, if either parent is Jewish, then the child is Jewish. Being Jewish is hard in our country.”
“Exactly,” said Tutsolov. “That’s what I tried to tell Igor, but he was determined. I wished him well and told him he was acting like a fool.”
“Three nights ago, just before midnight,” said Rostnikov, “where were you?”
“Three nights ago?” the young man repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t … that was a Wednesday, no, a Tuesday. It doesn’t matter, though. I go to sleep early. I have to get up early to get here by six. I was in bed sleeping.”
“Alone?” asked Rostnikov.
The young man smiled and said, “My roommate was across the room in his bed. He has trouble sleeping and usually reads late by the light of a small lamp next to his bed. The light doesn’t bother me. It’s better than if he goes to sleep. Leonid often snores.”
“Leonid Sharvotz,” said Rostnikov.
“Yes,” said Yevgeny.
“Also a friend of Igor Mesanovich?”
“Yes,” said Yevgeny.
“Where can we find Leonid?” asked Rostnikov.
“He should be at the apartment,” said Tutsolov. “He works afternoons and evenings. He’s a perfume salesman at one of the new GUM stores. I’ve never been there. He gave me the name once or twice, but I don’t remember.”
“No one was at the apartment,” said Rostnikov. “We just came from there.”
There was a long silence while the washtub of a detective drummed his fingers on the table. He looked into Yevgeny’s eyes till the young man turned away.
“Aren’t you going to ask me if I knew any of his other friends? Anyone who might want him dead?” asked Yevgeny.
“All right,” said Rostnikov. “Do you know anyone who might be able to help us, anyone who might have wanted your old friend dead?”
“No,” said Yevgeny.
“Most helpful,” said Rostnikov.
“You don’t think Leonid and I had anything to do with killing Igor, do you?”
“No,” said Rostnikov. “Of course not. We’re simply obliged to follow any leads, talk to the friends of victims of violent crimes. See if they can give us any help.”
“Igor was shot with three Jews?” Tutsolov asked incredulously.
Rostnikov nodded.
“I told you, as far as I know, he had no enemies,” said the young man. “But you say he was with three Jews. Maybe it was just his terrible luck to be with them. Maybe … but I’m not a policeman. I hope you find who did this and shoot him the way they shot Igor.”
“It is my experience that it seldom comes down to having to shoot criminals,” said Rostnikov. “I prefer execution by the state-far more grievous, drawn-out punishment than a quick and simple bullet.”
Tutsolov nodded, taking it in, appearing to absorb the wisdom of the older man.
“Yes,” he said.
“That is all for now,” said Rostnikov. “If you think of anything, I want you to call me.”
Rostnikov awkwardly fished a crumpled card from his wallet. It was a card for an assistant manager at a plumbing supply store. Rostnikov had written his own name and office phone number on the back. The young man took the card, examined it, and carefully put it in his own wallet.
“You may go,” said Rostnikov.
Yevgeny rose and nodded to Rostnikov and to Zelach, who still stood impassively behind Tutsolov’s chair.
“One final question,” said Rostnikov as the young man reached the door. “What is your favorite color?”
“My favorite …?”
Yevgeny Tutsolov looked at the emotionless big man and the seated detective.
“I … when I was a boy it was green,” he said. “Now, I don’t know. Why?”
Rostnikov didn’t answer. Yevgeny left, quickly closing the door behind him.
When the door was closed, Zelach said, “He’s lying, Porfiry Petrovich.”
“I know,” said Rostnikov. “And he is not very good at it. He thinks he is good, but he’s not. However, being a liar in Russia is not evidence of guilt. If it were, the entire population would be in prison getting tattooed and the streets would be empty. What would you suggest we do now?”
“Me?” asked Zelach. He thought for about ten seconds. “We have the rabbi, Belinsky, see if he can identify Tutsolov as one of the men who attacked him.”
“A possibility,” said Rostnikov. “At this point it certainly would provide the strong suggestion of a connection to the murders if he were identified. However, Belinsky saw very little of the faces of two of the men who attacked him. The one he can identify with certainty is the one whose nose he broke. So …?”
“We talk to Tutsolov’s roommate?” Zelach tried.
“Yes,” said Rostnikov. “Leonid Sharvotz.”
Zelach smiled.
Tutsolov was loading a machine with crumpled white sheets when the policemen wended their way through the laundry. The strong clean smells of bleach and detergent contrasted with the faint smell of food in the tight little lunchroom behind them where they had spoken to the nervous young man. Tutsolov smiled and waved. Zelach did nothing. Rostnikov nodded.
Rostnikov paused to thank the overweight Anna Karenina and then, with Zelach right behind him, escaped the noise of the laundry.
When they had gone, the supervisor, Ludmilla, walked over to Tutsolov and asked him what was going on. She was not sure what she thought about the young man. She, too, knew that he was a liar. He missed too much work, and his excuses were too varied and a bit difficult to keep swallowing dry.
“A friend of mine was murdered,” said the young man sadly, continuing to load the machine. “Almost a brother. They wanted to know if I knew anyone who might want him dead. No one would want Igor dead. He was the gentlest person I’ve ever known besides my mother.”
“Would you like to take the rest of the day off?” Ludmilla heard herself saying.
“Yes, please,” Yevgeny said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’ll stay late tomorrow.”
Ludmilla touched his shoulder and said nothing. She felt him trembling. From fear, grief?
Yevgeny Tutsolov, under the scrutiny of his curious fellow workers, took off his white smock and headed for the small room near the door where the coats and boots were kept.
There was no doubt in his mind now. Leonid would have to die. He had planned that from the beginning, but he was hoping to wait till they were safely out of the country or about to leave. But if this policeman found Leonid, Leonid might well break. Georgi, up to this moment, had posed the greater problem and had been first on Yevgeny’s death list, but things were changing, and quickly. It would have to be done tonight, risks or no risks. They would have to find it tonight. And he would have to kill both his remaining partners tonight. He could consider nothing else.
He put on his coat and hat and went down the echoing corridor to the employee exit. As he left, he wondered where Leonid had gone that morning, why he had not been home when the police had come. Whatever the reason, Yevgeny was grateful that Leonid had gone out.
Two hours later Georgi arrived at the hotel where Yevgeny worked. He hid by the loading dock behind a huge metal garbage container, moving when anyone came out into the cold to dump garbage or leave. His plan was simple: come out slowly behind Yevgeny when the shift in the laundry was over, and follow him till he was alone and the other workers were scattered. He would do it quickly, in a doorway or behind a wall or truck or leafless clump of trees or bushes. If Yevgeny spotted him, he would simply have to risk killing the younger man under less than ideal circumstances. There was no point in making up a lie. Yevgeny was too smart.