The Silent Sisters (Charles Jenkins #3)(40)

“Mishkin,” he said in a terse tone.

“Arkhip. It’s Aaron.”

“Who?”

“Aaron from the car repair shop. We have finished work on the car you brought us.”

Arkhip needed a moment to grasp the complexities of the call, still focused on the ME’s report.

“I’m afraid it is a bit more complicated than we suspected,” Aaron continued. “Can you meet me at the repair shop in fifteen minutes?”

Things clicked. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I can.”

The line went dead.



Ten minutes later, Arkhip departed Petrovka and stepped into another warm Moscow evening. Car and foot traffic on the streets and sidewalks was heavy. Muscovites sat at tables beneath awnings and umbrellas, drinking coffee or beer and getting a jump on the weekend. “Aaron” was Adrian Zima, who worked in the latent fingerprint lab within the ministry’s Criminal Investigation Department. Whenever Adrian believed he had sensitive information to impart to Arkhip, he suggested they meet at the “car repair shop.” The name was his code for the Pit Stop Café, which had once been a car repair shop before the owner fell victim to Moscow’s robust renovation in advance of hosting the 2018 World Cup. The owner, in business more than forty years, was strongly advised to take a payment and find a more suitable area for his business. Like most receiving such offers, he took the payoff and closed his doors.

The Pit Stop was a ten-minute walk from the ministry, near the corner of Petrovka and Strastnoy Boulevard. The repurposing and renovations of the businesses along these blocks seemed to happen overnight. Though Arkhip found it sad to know so many people lost their businesses, the revitalization had accomplished what the government intended, bringing in younger and more vibrant crowds to the cafés, bars, and restaurants, and presenting the world with the modern face of Russia.

Out with the old, in with the new, his Lada would have said. Soon it would be Arkhip who received a not-so-gentle shove to the door. He had one foot on the threshold as it was. What then?

What will I do at home, without you, Lada?

Maybe he’d travel. Maybe he’d join one of those singles groups that took trips around the world. He’d stand on cruise ships in white loafers with dark socks and shorts and put on weight, telling everyone he should have retired years earlier.

He chuckled at the thought of what Lada would say to such a ridiculous suggestion.

You, stand on a cruise ship deck for days? You can’t sit still for a minute. You’d lose your mind.

The Pit Stop had kept the repair shop’s rolling, multiplaned glass door, and it had been rolled up so customers could sit outside at sidewalk tables, though apparently not to converse. Most had their heads down, their fingers rapidly punching their phone keys. Arkhip never understood such behavior. Why get together only to talk on your phone to someone else?

The young didn’t yet understand time was precious. They thought time unlimited and themselves immortal. So had Arkhip, until it wasn’t. Until his Lada wasn’t.

Love is lost on youth.

Adrian sat at a table in the back corner. Arkhip would have preferred to save his money and not order anything, but he felt self-conscious walking past the counter without ordering. The rich aroma of coffee and the different tea blends, lemon and peppermint, filled the air. A young woman lifted her head as he approached, but she didn’t greet him or even smile.

He smiled at her anyway. “Chamomile tea,” he said. If he drank caffeinated tea or coffee at this hour, he would be awake all night—which he often was anyway.

“For here or to go?”

“I’m here. Am I not?” he said. She looked confused. He pointed. “I’ll be at the table in the corner, sitting with the gentleman wearing glasses.”

She rolled her eyes and pointed to a sign hanging above the counter. Arkhip looked up to read it: “Pick Up.” “We don’t deliver,” she said.

“Then I suppose I’ll wait.” A moment later, after charging him far too much for tea, the woman handed him an oversized porcelain mug, and Arkhip carefully made his way to where Adrian sat waiting. Adrian was often melodramatic, but he had good instincts and Arkhip had come to trust him as one of the still-honest members of the Moscow police department.

Arkhip set his mug on the table and carefully sat so as not to spill the contents. “How have you been?” he said to Adrian.

“I’ve been better.”

“You have been busy?”

“We are always busy, Arkhip. We are always backed up with DNA analysis.”

“So then, to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Adrian leaned forward. “Your fingerprint in the case you pulled. You know the victim is Eldar Velikaya.”

“I assure you I am aware,” Arkhip said, hoping this wasn’t the reason Adrian requested the meeting.

Adrian sat back. He looked hurt. Arkhip knew better. Adrian held information to play the role of investigator to as large an audience as possible, in this case only one, but still a performance.

“But I certainly don’t have all the information,” Arkhip added. “There have been some strange developments.”

“They are about to get more strange.” Adrian glanced to his left, then his right, though no one sat at the tables beside them. “I pulled the police report. That report indicates the fingerprints came from a beer bottle and were most likely left by a man who entered the bar and sat in a booth near the front. Facial recognition cameras identified the man as Charles Wilson, a British industrialist.”