"For the third time, I met Todd Fillinger five years ago in Paris." Iris massaged her temples. “I was between jobs and took an extended vacation in Europe. We were friends. I came home to Los Angeles and we lost touch until last month.”
“Why were you between jobs?” Detective Anatoly Davidovsky sat behind a desk with a fake teak finish that was peeling at the corners. A black rotary telephone was on the corner. Next to it was an ashtray of gold pressed glass that was overflowing with cigarette butts.
A tall, scrawny man leaning against a fingerprint-smudged metal filing cabinet in the corner pressed a fresh butt out in the ashtray. From his conversation with Davidovsky, Iris figured out that his name is Dmitri. He was wearing the blue-gray wool pants of a Militsiya uniform and a black turtleneck sweater. Iris hadn’t been introduced to him and suspected his knowledge of English was scant by the way he cocked his head toward her and frowned, nodding and appearing pleased when he seemed to catch a scrap of what she was saying.
“I’d received my Master’s degree in Business Administration that June. In September, I was starting the broker training program at the firm where I’d accepted a position. I quit my job teaching grade school a few months early so I could travel.”
Davidovsky leaned back in a rickety wooden desk chair. His thinning dark hair was rumpled. A double chin obscured his short, broad neck above his barrel chest. Behind him, rain pattered against a dirty window over which lime-green curtains of fraying nylon were pulled closed, but didn’t meet in the center. “Where did you travel in Europe?” His English was perfect, with a slight accent.
“I mostly stayed in Paris. I fell in love with it.”
“And with Todd Fillinger,” Davidovsky added.
Iris sighed and let her eyes roll toward the ceiling. She was sitting in a straight-back, armless wooden chair. “I don’t see the point of this interrogation. I told you Todd was afraid of the Russian Mafia. He said they were demanding protection money from him. Find Todd’s bodyguard, this Sasha. He’ll tell you."
Davidovsky sniffed and pressed his lips together. “You said you hadn’t heard from Fillinger for five years. Why did you come all the way to Moscow to see this man after such a long time?”
“He’d seen an interview with me in the Wall Street Journal and found out I’m an investment counselor. He needed investment capital to start a chain of art galleries in Moscow. I know people looking for places to invest their money. He contacted me. It happens every day.”
“People don’t travel so far for such a thing.”
“Some people do.”
“Tell me again about this big art deal and Enrico Lazare.”
Iris pounded her knee with her clenched fist. “Why do you keep asking me these same questions over and over? The Russian Mafia wanted protection money from Todd. Why don't you go after them? Or can’t you? I heard the Moscow police are in their back pocket." She immediately regretted the comment. It was tough talk coming from a woman wearing a sexy cocktail dress who had no money, identification, or even a coat to cover her bare arms, having left everything in the hotel bar when she ran out to investigate the shooting.
Davidovsky looked at her evenly, his eyes hooded. "Miss Thorne, I had not heard of Todd Fillinger before today and I resent your suggestion. If Fillinger was afraid of the Mafia, he was running with the wrong crowd. You say he was the middleman in some art deals. In Russia it can be dangerous to be a middleman."
Iris abruptly stood in a show of bravado. “I’ve had enough. I’m an American citizen. You can’t hold me like this for no reason. I demand that you call the American Embassy. I’m hungry, I’m cold, and I need to use the restroom.”
Davidovsky gave Iris a long, steady look, his face expressionless as if he were trying to decide if she was lying, or telling the truth but holding something back. Or maybe he was just trying to make her uncomfortable.
So much had happened so quickly, Iris hadn’t had time to feel scared. It now occurred to her that the situation was grave. She met Davidovsky’s stare, engaging him in his game of chicken. Suddenly she felt shaky, light-headed, and sick to her stomach. Part of it was caused by lack of food. Still meeting the detective’s eyes behind his drooping lids, she shivered and rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms. She thought of Garland. Since she’d arrived at the police station, she hadn’t felt like crying until then. The tears welled up and she swallowed hard to keep them down. She managed it, but not, she realized, before Davidovsky had seen her distress. She looked at the dingy, buckled linoleum floor, regained her composure, and faced Davidovsky again. “I demand to speak to the American Embassy.”
Davidovsky, still keeping an eye on her, spoke to Dmitri in Russian. They shot unnerving glances at her as they spoke.
“Miss Thorne,” Davidovsky leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. “Please sit down. The more cooperative you are in answering our questions, the sooner you can leave.”
Iris dropped back into the chair, tugging on the hem of her dress.
There was a quick knock on the door and then it opened. A diminutive man wearing a well-cut navy blue suit and a tidy fringe of hair around his shiny, bald pate entered the room. He had a neat, narrow face with sharply angled features, like a fox. He nodded without speaking to Davidovsky, who nodded back a bit stiffly. He didn’t seem happy to see the visitor.
After a small bow to Iris, the man walked across the room, pulled a wooden chair away from the wall, sat, and casually crossed his legs. Iris noticed that the starched cuff of his white shirt bore a monogram stitched in navy blue. He was wearing a large gold identification bracelet on his left wrist and an expensive-looking gold watch on his right.
Davidovsky began speaking to the visitor at length, apparently updating him on what had transpired so far. The man alternately knitted then raised his eyebrows as he listened, occasionally looking at Iris with a pleasant expression that revealed little. His finely detailed lips had a natural lift at the edges, as did his eyebrows, making him appear as if he was smiling even in repose.
While Davidovsky was talking, the man pulled a gold cigarette case and a gold lighter from his jacket pocket. He clicked open the case and held it toward Iris who shook her head, then took a cigarette and lit it.
The detective grimaced as he spoke, as if he were delivering bad news. He lifted his hands with resignation. It was clear to Iris that he was being deferential to the other man.
The man patiently and attentively listened until Davidovsky had finished, after which he directed a few questions in Russian to the detective who passed them on to Iris.
"This big art deal that your friend Fillinger talked to you about, this art was owned by someone in Moscow?"
“I don’t know.”
“Fillinger must have spoken to you of the Club Ukrainiya."
"No."
Davidovsky made a comment to the small man who said something back.
"But he told you of Nikolai Kosyakov?" Davidovsky asked Iris.
“No."
Davidovsky looked at the man, apparently seeking guidance.
Iris volunteered, "You should find Todd’s partner, Enrico Lazare. He could tell you about the art deal."
The man eyed Iris skeptically and in a way that made her uncomfortable, in spite of his apparent cheerfulness. She tugged on the hem of her dress again then tightly crossed her arms over her chest, hunching against the chill in the room.
He rose to tap ash into the overflowing glass ashtray on the desk. He slowly sat back down, looked at Iris with green-black eyes, then surprised her when he said in perfect and careful English, "I find that hard to believe, Miss Thorne."
"Well, believe it. Believe everything I’ve told you. I have nothing to hide. Now it’s time for you to take me back to my hotel." She rose and took a step toward the door.
Dmitri quickly moved from the filing cabinet to block her exit.
Iris didn’t sit back down, but stood in the center of the room. She put her hands on her hips.
The fox-faced man openly studied Iris’s legs. “You and Todd Fillinger were lovers.”
Iris boldly leaned toward him. "We were friends. Furthermore, I don't see what my relationship with Todd has to do with anything."
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope from which he took several sheets of folded stationery and what appeared to be a photograph. From another pocket he produced a pair of wire-rimmed half-glasses which he placed on his nose. As he scanned the pages, the edges of his lips curled even more. “Paris. No finer place to fall in love. Wouldn’t you agree?”
In horror, Iris realized he was reading the letter Todd had sent her. She took a step toward him. "That’s my letter! It was in my hotel room."
Ignoring her, he got up and handed the letter to Davidovsky.
Davidovsky smiled as he looked at the photograph of Iris and Todd in front of Le Café des Quatre Vents. “You were lovers after all."
"Yes, and so what?"
The small man again sat and fastidiously crossed his legs. Her rancor seemed to amuse him. He drew on his cigarette and waved it in Iris’s direction. “Miss Thorne, you would be more comfortable sitting down, wouldn’t you agree?”
Scowling, Iris returned to the hard chair.
Davidovsky’s questions became more pointed. “Why are you in Moscow, Miss Thorne? You expect us to believe you came all this way to investigate investing in art galleries with a man you say you haven’t had any contact with for five years?"
“Yes, I do.”
The door suddenly opened and a tall, slender man with a long face and lank blond hair came in. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged. "I'm Dean Palmer, consular officer with the U.S. Embassy."
Iris tipped her head back on her shoulders and murmured, “Thank God.”
“You took Ms. Thorne into custody three hours ago. I’m sure she's told you everything she knows about Todd Fillinger's murder."
“Actually, we were just starting to make progress," Davidovsky said.
"Witnesses saw two men on motorcycles shoot at Fillinger with automatic weapons then flee the scene,” Palmer said. “This looks like an ordinary, mob-style hit. I know for a fact that Mr. Fillinger was having a dispute with the local mob and that they had threatened his life. Obviously, Ms. Thorne had nothing to do with the crime. Ms. Thorne is an American citizen. Under the authority of the U.S. Ambassador, I'm escorting her to her hotel."
Davidovsky stood behind his desk. He was a broad man. "Mr. Palmer, I don't care who you are. My interrogation of Miss Thorne is not complete."
The balding man walked over to Davidovsky, spoke quietly into his ear, and handed him a U.S. passport. Iris exchanged a bewildered look with Palmer.
Davidovsky held up the passport. "Until we complete our investigation, I must request that Miss Thorne remain in Moscow. We will retain her passport to ensure that she does."
Iris gaped at him while Palmer voiced his outrage. “You can't do that. You have no authority."
Davidovsky opened the top drawer of his desk and tossed the passport inside. "We will be in touch."
Iris glared at the balding man. He met her eyes. He looked pleased.
Palmer took Iris’s arm and pulled her into a corridor full of crime victims standing in long lines. At too few desks at the front, sunken-cheeked Militsiya officers were making out reports in longhand on green forms.
Outside the aging police station, Palmer told Iris, “Let’s go one street over. We’ll have a better chance of getting a cab there. We’ll probably end up walking to your hotel. Cabs aren’t usually out this late. The drivers are afraid of being robbed.”
They walked through the quiet streets which were wet from rain. Iris was surprised that a city which seemed defined by noise and activity during the day had transformed into something so silent at night.
Palmer shook his head. “I can’t believe they confiscated your passport.”
“You’ve never seen that happen before?” Iris rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Her teeth were chattering.
“No.” He took off his sports jacket and handed it to her. “I’ll talk it over with the Ambassador first thing tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “It is tomorrow.”
Iris gratefully slipped her arms into the jacket. “Thanks. Who was that bald man?"
Palmer nervously rubbed his hands together as they walked. "I don't know."
"He asked me about Nikolai Kosyakov and the Club Ukrainiya.”
He stopped walking and frowned at her. “He did?”
“Who’s Kosyakov?”
He began walking again. "Kosyakov is said to be the richest man in Russia. He bought this run-down mansion and turned it into Moscow's first private club, the Club Ukrainiya. Everyone who’s anyone in the city belongs to it. All men, of course."
"Is Kosyakov Mafia-connected?"
"What Russian businessman who got rich overnight isn't?"
"Maybe he's the one Todd was afraid of.”
"Could be."
“Did you know Todd?” Iris stepped lightly in her strappy high heels. The uneven and broken asphalt, easily felt through the shoes’ thin soles, made her feet ache.
“A little. We frequented some of the same places. I'd heard that he’d stood up to the Mafia. They’re going to be this city’s downfall, if you ask me. Todd had guts. He’s a hero in my book.”
"Davidovsky and that bald guy were interested in this art deal Todd was into,” Iris said. “I wonder why. I wish I could talk to Todd’s business partner, Enrico Lazare. Do you know him?"
“I’ve heard of him, but never met him.” Palmer saw a taxi, a beat-up Lada, with its roof light illuminated. “Finally, a bit of luck.” He ran into the street, almost in the taxi’s path, and waved his arms. He directed the driver to the Metropolis Hotel.
“I don’t have any cash on me,” Iris apologized.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Now that she was safely on her way back to the hotel, she began to weep. “I’m sorry. I just—”
Palmer put his arm round her shoulders. “You don’t need to explain. You’ve held up remarkably well, considering everything that’s happened. You held your own under a three-hour interrogation by the Russian police.”
“Yeah, wearing nothing but a cocktail dress and do-me heels.”
They both laughed. He fished a handkerchief from the rear pocket of his gray slacks.
Iris dabbed her eyes with it. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t shown up.”
Palmer patted her arm. “Don’t mention it.”
The taxi pulled in front of the Metropolis Hotel. A uniformed doorman sleepily rose from where he had been sitting at a desk just inside the glass doors.
“So what now?” Iris asked Palmer.
“We need to get your passport back and get you on a plane to Los Angeles.”
“Do you think there will be any problems?”
“Well, there usually are. Let’s hope for the best.”
Iris shook Palmer’s hand and stepped from the cab. The taxi waited until she walked into the hotel, which she did quickly, cutting a wide circle around Todd Fillinger’s blood.