Iris sat in the Metropolis Hotel’s posh bar, nursing her second vodka tonic and eating salted pistachios. She wanted to get rip-roaring drunk, to blow herself into a fuzzy fog, but with the way things were unfolding in Moscow, she didn’t dare. She was homesick for a glass of California Chardonnay, which she would sip while sitting in her backyard in her Adirondack chair, gazing at the Pacific Ocean that changed its colors like a mood ring.
A German businessman in a group at a nearby table kept shooting glances at her, the stares lingering longer the drunker he became. She’d turned down their offer to join them, but this man seemed to think that her refusal didn’t really mean no. Several Korean businessmen were looking her way as well, despite her denim and hiking boots and limp hair, flattened by the dampness in the air. She was the only woman in the bar who was not accompanied by a man. The other women there—waif-like things in expensive furs and trashy dresses—were on the arms of men. She looked out the window at where Todd had fallen and counted the hours until Garland was to arrive.
He was flying in the next afternoon. He’d been on the phone to everyone, pulling every string he had to spring her and promised that he’d have the situation resolved by the end of the week.
She felt oddly calm about the whole thing. Garland was involved now and he’d take care of it. It had taken her a while to shrug off the desire to micro-manage everything in her life. But once she’d learned to trust him, she’d found it was easier when two shared the burden. Garland was coming to Moscow, and he would take care of things.
She was more preoccupied with the question of Todd and what had happened to him. She thought about herself and the dippy period of her life when she’d almost married a man she hardly knew. She had wanted Todd so badly that she’d fooled herself into thinking that they didn’t need to know each other longer. They were soul mates, kindred spirits who already understood each other on a deeper, more profound level, making the details trivial. It seemed silly now. Much had changed for her in five years. She’d changed. Todd hadn’t. He was still running, searching. They had intersected at a point where she had been running too. She could have told him what she was thinking. It would have been the decent thing to do. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t deserve any of it.
She downed the last of her drink and raised her glass in the direction of the waiter. He nodded at her. She dragged her finger through the salty residue left by the pistachios and licked it off to the undisguised salacious interest of the German. She was tipsy enough not to care.
She was relieved to see the group of German men start to leave. Her fan lingered, weaving on his feet, his features lax from too much alcohol. The booze had also laid bare any façade that might have disguised his true motives. Iris scowled at the table top, avoiding eye contact. His friends pulled his arm and managed to drag him away. She relaxed.
The waiter brought her drink. “Were you able to find my cigarettes?” she asked.
“Sorry, no. When the hotel tobacco shop didn’t have them, they called a bigger store. No one has heard of this brand, True.”
“I guess low tar and nicotine cigarettes are not popular in Moscow.”
He smiled. “No, they are not.”
“Can I order a sandwich that I can take to my room?”
“Certainly. I’ll have something prepared for you.”
She examined the bill and slowly calculated a hefty tip for him, not fast with numbers even when she was clear-headed. The waiter spoke to someone who approached the table. When she finished settling her tab, she looked up to see the double chins and barrel chest of Detective Davidovsky. The waiter picked up the check and quickly exited.
“Detective Davidovsky,” Iris said. “What a surprise.”
He flipped her passport onto the table in front of her. “Thank you for your cooperation in the Todd Fillinger murder investigation. We have all the information we need from you. You’re free to leave Russia.”
Iris opened her passport to her grinning photo. She repeated his message to make sure she’d heard correctly. “I can go home?”
“Yes, you are going home.” He stood with his hands straight by his sides.
“Oh.” She slipped the passport into her backpack on the banquette next to her. “Great. Well, I guess I can finally enjoy my visit to Moscow.”
“There’s a direct flight to Los Angeles leaving in four hours.”
“My boyfriend’s arriving tomorrow. Now that everything’s resolved, I’d like to see some of the sights.”
Davidovsky said more pointedly, “You are leaving for Los Angeles in four hours. I will wait while you gather your belongings and escort you to the airport.”
Iris rose behind the table, with a foot on the floor and her knee on the banquette. “Wait a minute. First you won’t let me leave. Now you won’t let me stay. What gives?”
“You’re interfering in a murder investigation.”
“Interfering? Because I tried to see Nikolai Kosyakov? Because I found out that someone was shot in his office?”
“I’ll wait in the lobby while you pack your things. You have half an hour.”
Iris slid from the booth, hooking the strap of her backpack over her shoulder. “Fine. No problem. But I’m not leaving until I get Todd Fillinger’s remains.”
“Remains?”
“His ashes. I’m taking them to his sister. Is that all right? Dean Palmer is making the arrangements. You’ll have to ask him when they’ll be ready.”
Without a word, Davidovsky walked to the bar and gestured for a telephone, which was promptly set in front of him. He watched Iris as he made a call.
Before long, he returned to her. “Dean Palmer will meet us at the airport with the urn.”