Tuesday 9/30
THE NEXT MORNING, FIRST THING, JUDGE SALAS DISMISSED THE charges against Stefan Wyatt. A rumpled Alex Zhukovsky had reappeared in the hallway, apologizing for his absence without explaining. Jaime had spent the night interviewing Alan Turk, and had the amazing grace to join in the motion.
Paul tried to catch up with Nina after court, but after answering just a few questions for the press and posing with Stefan as two big smiles, she lit out and had probably hit Highway 68 going west toward her office in Carmel before he could work his way through the crowd. She was smaller, and had her little ways of avoiding traffic, human and otherwise.
The reporters engaged in an orderly feeding frenzy, sticking huge microphones into any face that happened nearby. Salinas was an interesting town, sleepy and quiet as aromatic fields growing on the one hand, and full of boisterous, drunken, sometimes fatal trouble on the other. It must be a slow news night because everyone plus his uncle Dave was looking for action at the courthouse that afternoon.
When he got to the Mustang, Paul considered going back to Carmel, too, but he didn’t want to go back to Carmel. In Nina’s book, Alan’s confession ended things. He, however, had some unfinished business.
He drove up Highway 101. From Salinas, in unobstructed traffic, the trip took a little over two hours to San Francisco, and he got lucky, spotting no highway patrols, catching the tailwind of a harebrained Mack truck driver who was illegally hogging the left lane most of the way up. He cut over to 280, wound through Golden Gate Park, and found a spot for the Mustang on Twenty-fifth Avenue.
Father Giorgi, wearing clean, fresh bandages on his face and neck, working in his office in a side wing off the main cathedral, was not glad to see him, but he was astonished to hear the news about the resolution of the case.
“Congratulations on your rapid recovery,” Paul said. The priest looked much improved.
Giorgi touched his neck. “A few stitches. A broken finger. A lot of blood and fright, though. I never really believed it was Stefan,” he said. “Do you know that a lawyer from Monterey contacted me? Christina had been doing some fund-raising for a nonprofit. She requested that I be left in charge in her stead.” He couldn’t hide his pleasure at the news. “There’s a board, and they’ve agreed.”
“The money she raised at the conference?”
“Yes. It’s been sitting in a bank, losing capital, I might add. These days, they charge you to hold your money and invest it for their own profit.”
Paul didn’t want to get into that particular conversation with Giorgi, who had quite an interest in money and its interest, he also noticed. “What will you do with it?”
“Christina had a lot of ideas, some not so realistic. Universal health care, a true democracy in Russia. I think the money should be used to promote the Mother Church.”
Paul didn’t doubt Giorgi would do what he wanted with the money. In fact, he had many ideas, and wanted to expound on them to Paul. He wanted to justify his shift in philosophy from Christina’s way of thinking to his. Paul listened for several minutes, then said, “I’m here for Krilov.”
Giorgi sighed. “It’s a matter of honor?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t intend to kill him?”
“Only if necessary.”
“Ah. Hmm. I don’t like the sound of that.” Nevertheless, he reached into his drawer, pulled out a book, and began to make a few calls. “I know everybody,” he said, “and most of them owe me favors.”
Paul wondered if he had the favors marked in there, too. It wasn’t long before they had the information he needed.
Krilov was holed up in a single room in the Tenderloin, a nasty San Francisco neighborhood full of theaters, strip joints, bums, and all the other colorful creatures of the earth that thrived under an alternative value system. Paul arrived in the afternoon, when the early birds were scratching and hitting the streets and the late ones continued to slumber. This sun-filled day exposed all the globs of gum on the sidewalk and the shabbiness of clothing. Transformation would come with the darkness, when neon signs splashed the streets with colorful illusions.
He told the clerk where he was going, and after the man assured himself Paul was not the cop he appeared to be, he let Paul go up without calling ahead.
Krilov opened on the first knock, bleary-eyed, coughing like a cat with a hairball, obviously just coming off a drunken binge. Paul didn’t wait to be greeted. He punched him twice, once in the stomach, and next in the ribs. Unprepared, and without the spark of battle lust to inflame him, Sergey crumpled to the floor, not letting out a sound.
Paul kicked him, but not hard enough to bruise him. “I don’t like people getting hurt on my watch.”
Sergey, dewier than Paul by maybe six years, had the sickening, rebounding ability of youth on his side. He stood slowly, then sat himself down on his littered bed. He coughed, picked up a glass of water, and drank it to the bottom. “Is there more?” he asked. “Because I’m very busy right now.”
“You want more?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“But if you came to beat me, you’ll have to hit harder, for longer. I was a soldier, you know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Before I met Christina.” He pulled a packet of brown, foul-looking cigarettes out of a pocket and lit one, which smelled brown and foul. “Ooh. I’ll die young,” he said, breathing smoke through his nose.
“What a shame,” Paul said. “Meanwhile…”
“Meanwhile, what the hell. When Christina died, I thought I should continue on, you know. Follow the DNA trail. That’s what I came here to do. Stop anyone who might feel the need to continue the farce we had started and allowed to get so badly out of hand. That’s why I went to the lab.”
“You almost killed Father Giorgi and the guard.”
“Unexpectedly, that coward Giorgi flinched, and the guard fought hard. I never meant to hurt them badly, if it matters.”
“It doesn’t.”
“But in my favor, note that I did not kill that strong Japanese woman in the lab, the one with all the bones laid out like doilies on those granite counters.”
Paul examined the pile of junk on the bed and said, “You’re leaving?”
“Yes,” Sergey said, looking at the ticket Paul had spotted. “Tomorrow.”
“Going to Vancouver on the train, I see.”
“Unless stopped at the border. I guess you could arrange that. I suppose I’ll have to change the ticket now.” He blew smoke thoughtfully.
“Where are the bones?” Paul said.
“Bones?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Sergey dragged so deeply that Paul could picture the black tar adhering to his lungs. “You mean Constantin’s? That’s what you’re here for?”
“Right. You stole them in Sacramento. I want to know what you did with them.”
Like a kid searching for goblins, very tentatively, he reached underneath his bed. “You want them?” He held the two long, dusty bleached bones in his hands. “Well, enjoy.”
Paul took them from him. “Won’t your pals get mad if you don’t come back with them?”
“I was supposed to destroy them. Then I thought they might continue to offer some financial possibilities and considered keeping them myself. But I’ve grown tired of these games.” He held out a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.” Paul looked around, found a towel on the radiator, and wrapped the bones in it. Krilov watched impassively.
“Sit down. I’ve got no one to talk to in this frenzied country since Christina died.”
Paul remained standing, but did let himself rest against the door frame.
“We don’t want any more pretenders to Russia’s throne creeping out of Monterey,” Krilov went on. “If there is any hint of that, the rest of them will probably be murdered. I myself was instructed to phone in the bomb threat to stop Alex Zhukovsky from testifying. I was supposed to kill him, but I just picked him up when the people came running out and rode around with him for a while. You might say he convinced me he had no interest in bringing up old histories.”
“I might say that you just didn’t feel like killing him,” Paul said.
Krilov laughed and coughed. “True. I thought, after him, there’s the next brother, and then the kid who just spent months in prison. It just seemed like needless butchering, like the Bolsheviks shooting and stabbing the little daughters. The rest of them are harmless. I think Christina was-unique. What a shame she defected over to Father Giorgi’s faction, a bunch of radical religionists. We wanted to make her a tsar, or at the very least, give her a beautiful power. Make her famous. Get her picture in magazines around the world.”
“You wanted a masthead for a phony monarchy you would run from behind the scenes. When Christina figured that out, she dropped you. At least Giorgi might have helped her do some social good.”
“She was an experiment that failed.”
“That sounds damn cold, from what I know of your relationship. You were lovers, weren’t you?”
Krilov shrugged. He didn’t seem to care about anything anymore.
“What happens when you go back to Russia?” Paul asked him.
“Oh, I won’t go there again. My death would be slow. I think maybe Cuba.”
Paul nodded.
“What will they do with the bones?”
“Cremate them.” Paul would have a little talk with Gabe, convince him.
“Fine.” Sergey dropped his cigarette butt into a cup, where it sizzled. “We’re all victims of tradition, even in America,” he said. “Bury the dead, all that kind of thing. Death.”
“Closure,” Paul said.
“Do we have any other business?”
“I’m afraid so.” Paul pointed his weapon through his pants pocket at Krilov. “It’s a Glock,” he said. “My beautiful power.”
“You’re going to turn me in? They’ll never prove anything. Giorgi won’t talk.”
“They’ll deport you back to Russia,” Paul said. Krilov jumped up and ran at him, low, dangerous because he was willing to take a shot, but Paul’s big hand with the gun came down hard on his neck.
“Kto kovo,” Paul said. He opened the door and invited the cops in.