Stalin’s Ghost by Martin Cruz Smith Read Free Book Online

day.”
    “I am. Did you have other plans?”
    “Except you’re always thinking about work, so you’re not really here when you are here.”
    “Not all the time.”
    “Yes, all the time. Which is good, I suppose, in an investigator. I know when a ghost joins us. I feel the company.” This was a loaded statement, because there were ghosts and there were ghosts. “I suppose you can’t help becoming involved.”
    “Actually, it’s better not to get involved.”
    “You can do that?”
    “I have to. I can’t spend my life brooding on the dead.”
    He closed his eyes and saw the man with the cleaver in his neck. The odds were astronomical against a drunken woman’s dispatching her husband with a single, perfect swing of a cleaver between the vertebrae and through the spinal cord, as Isakov and Urman maintained. A woman so drunk she most likely wouldn’t remember anything she said, let alone a confession. However, the blood spatter pattern on the kitchen walls did seem to match the stains on her housedress. The cleaver handle pointed to the victim’s left shoulder, indicating a right-handed attack; she was right-handed. The fact that no neighbors called the militia about the noise of the fight suggested that the husband and wife had gone toe to toe before. Had they argued over who had the dragon? Enough snow, enough vodka, a ready blade? With that combination you didn’t need professional killers.
    Either way, Arkady was annoyed at himself for drawing the attention of Isakov and Urman. Asking questions was the last thing he should have done, although it was instructive watching the captain and his eager lieutenant.
    “You’re doing it now,” she said.
    “Sorry.”
    “I know your secret,” she said.
    “What’s my secret?”
    “In spite of everything, at heart you’re an optimist.” She amended that. “In spite of me , you’re an optimist.”
    “We have our moments.”
    “I have proof. It’s all on tape.” When Eva and Arkady were first together she would take a pocket-size tape recorder and cassettes to record what they were doing, whether it was a day of skiing or a simple walk, to play back later and laugh at. When was the last time he heard her laugh?
    He held her heartbeat in her breast. With her he was always half aroused. If that wasn’t cause for optimism, what was?
     
    Outside the day faded, the sun a bonfire in the snow.
    Down on the street, a road crew was attempting the repair of a pothole. Four sturdy women dug while a man supervised and occasionally held a lamp. Each day for a week they had poured steaming asphalt that settled into a widening hole, a daily demonstration of futility.
    The phone rang. A sugary Zurin talked to the answering machine this time, apologizing for disturbing Arkady on his day off and hoping that Arkady wasn’t using his machine to avoid calls. “You wouldn’t be as low as that.”
    No problem, thought Arkady. He pulled the phone line from the jack, then remembered Zhenya and reconnected.
    Eva watched. “You still expect Zhenya to call?”
    “He might.”
    “He will be fine. He’s a fish in water.”
    “It’s cold out.”
    “Then he’ll find someplace warm. Are you sure you saw him?”
    “No, but I’m sure he was there. Did he say anything to you?”
    “Two words: He’s here . Then he raced out the door.”
    Nobody knew how many homeless kids there were in Moscow. Estimates ranged from ten to fifty thousand, in age from four to sixteen. Few were orphans; most were running from alcoholic, abusive families. The kids ate and wore what they could steal or beg. They slept on heating pipes or in unwatched trains. They sniffed glue, bummed cigarettes, sold themselves for sex outside the Bolshoi, and the closest thing to a steady roost was Three Stations. The week before, the militia had collared Zhenya, along with his friends Georgy and Fedya. Zhenya was released to Arkady, but Georgy and Fedya had simply been released for lack of shelter space. The