The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey didn’t notice twilight falling over the city after the thunderstorm. Petrovka had gradually emptied out, the telephones were no longer ringing—it was the best time of day for workaholics. There, in the silence, it was easier to think, easier to analyze the lab reports and interview transcripts that had arrived over the course of the day. Andrey sighed, stretched, and opened a window, letting in a gust of rain-cooled air. He put the kettle on. It was already beginning to boil when the preparation of Andrey’s signature brew—a shot of yesterday’s tea in yesterday’s cup, with one cube of sugar—was interrupted by a telephone call.

“Yakovlev,” he answered, adding fresh water to his not-so-fresh cup.

“Hello, good evening, Captain,” came Innokenty’s voice, nauseatingly polite. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’m worried about Masha.”

Andrey slowly put his cup down on a pile of paperwork. “Oh yeah?”

“Were you able to reach her?”

“No,” he said.

“I called all day, too, but she hasn’t picked up. It’s probably nothing—she’s always leaving her phone somewhere or forgetting to charge it. But as you noted this morning, given what’s been going on… And since the anniversary is this week, and I—” Innokenty stopped and cleared his throat. “I mean, we, her family and friends, try not to let her out of our sight for long this time of year.”

“What anniversary?” Andrey asked, a nasty feeling of dread creeping across the back of his neck.

Innokenty paused. “Masha probably wouldn’t want me to tell you, but I think you should know. Masha’s father was Karavay, the famous defense attorney. He was murdered when Masha was twelve. She’s the one who found the body.”

Andrey sat down. “Fuck me,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry. I’ve gotta go.” Andrey dropped the phone and stood up quickly, almost knocking over his teacup. He just managed to grab his jacket on his way out the door.

He could tolerate the feeling of guilt while he was running down the stairs and pulling out of his parking spot. But it became unbearable as soon as he hit the eternal Moscow traffic jam. Once his car was firmly lodged up against the back end of some sort of SUV, Andrey noticed that he was clenching his jaw to keep from roaring in anger as the rage and self-loathing overtook him. His inner masochist was forcing him to relive the details of his drunken outburst and Masha’s silent departure, over and over again. He punched the steering wheel, which responded with a loud honk. The Jeep ahead of him stood stock still, like some sort of monument to the American auto industry. Andrey turned the wheel sharply and pulled out onto the shoulder. There must be a metro station somewhere around here.

He would take the train to Masha’s place, just to be going somewhere, just to be moving toward his own possible absolution.