Madness Treads Lightly

CHAPTER 14

Senior Investigator Mikhail Sichkin pondered the two photographs on his desk. One was of a beautiful—Hollywood-beautiful—woman of around forty with refined features and hair the color of ripe wheat. The other was of a young woman whose face was so hopelessly ugly he could only sigh out of pity.

On closer look, though, his pity evaporated. There was something sharklike in that face: the splayed chin, the large flat nose, the small, icy eyes.

The beauty in the other photo had the same eyes, only her expression was slightly different.

“A hungry shark and a full one,” Misha muttered. “That’s the only difference.”

He checked himself. What am I saying? What if this Regina Gradskaya is the sweetest of women, the kindest of souls? I haven’t looked into her eyes and I’ve already called her a shark. So someone has a few plastic surgeries and changes her appearance to the point of being unrecognizable. The question is, what woman wouldn’t like to change her appearance?

Sichkin’s interest was piqued almost immediately by the good doctor that Veronika Rogovets, the model, had casually mentioned. He couldn’t let go of this business of motive. Why did Regina Gradskaya groom Veronika Rogovets so painstakingly for her interview with the investigator?

Yes, the doctor had greatly piqued Misha Sichkin’s interest. He decided to prepare properly for their meeting and took the time to find out everything he could about her.

The fact that Regina Gradskaya had so completely changed her appearance only intrigued Misha more. He found lots of photographs of present-day Gradskaya, including on the pages of popular magazines, where she was pictured alongside her famous husband, the megaproducer Veniamin Volkov. But the old presurgery photo had been hard to find. All it took was one look at this woman’s original face for Sichkin to realize why she’d gone to such lengths to destroy all her old photographs.

As of the time of their meeting, Misha knew only that Regina Gradskaya had been born in Tobolsk, Tyumen Province, in 1946. In 1963 she had entered the First Moscow Medical College and graduated with honors. Then a residency and a specialization in psychiatry. She had worked at the Serbsky Institute, where she defended her dissertation on “The Characteristics of the Emotional Sphere and Volitional Processes in the Formation of Delusional Motivations and Their Correlation to the Nosological and Syndromal Characteristics of Psychiatric Illnesses.” During her residency, Gradskaya had worked almost exclusively with psychopathic killers, studying their intellectual comprehension of their crimes.

To be as prepared as possible for the meeting, Misha paid a visit to someone he knew from the Serbsky Institute, an old professor of forensic psychiatry. Luckily for Misha, the professor loved to reminisce, and he remembered Regina Gradskaya very, very well.

“You know, I always felt sorry for the smart, homely girls. A woman doesn’t have to be smart,” the professor said. “But Regina was an extreme case. Terribly smart and terribly unattractive. At the time I was certain she’d go very far in the field. There was no real hope of a personal life or a family for her. And she might have gone far if she hadn’t gotten distracted by quasi-scientific stunts, ESP, and all that other rubbish. It was over that that she ended up clashing with the institute’s directors. She could do all kinds of things with her hands and eyes and voice. Scientific psychiatry has no place for that kind of sleight of hand. And then they found out she was practicing out of her home, for money. They let her get her doctorate, of course, but they made it clear she had to leave the institute.”

After she resigned from the Serbsky, Gradskaya got a job at the district psychiatric clinic. Back in the early seventies, when it wasn’t fashionable, when it was looked on as hocus-pocus, Dr. Gradskaya was actively practicing ESP in her free time. Regina Valentinovna saw patients in her home, treating famous celebrities for big money and working with all kinds of sexual disorders and severe depressions.

The old professor was wrong in his prognosis about ugly Regina’s personal life. In 1986, she married Veniamin Volkov. Today every schoolchild knew that name. But at the time, almost no one did.

Regina Valentinovna was ten years older than her husband. Not only that, he was an attractive man, whereas she, at the time, before the plastic surgeries, was ugly.

The marriage had been quite fruitful. The couple hadn’t had any children, but they had given birth to and raised a very powerful and famous entertainment empire, Veniamin Productions. The murdered singer had been closely tied to that business, as was his lover. Some of their videos together had been shot at that studio, and Azarov’s last tour had been organized by one of Volkov’s people. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to meet with Veniamin Borisovich as well—if he could find more serious grounds for doing so than the mere fact that Volkov had worked with the deceased. Whether Misha would come up with those grounds was an open question.

Regina Valentinovna spoke quite graciously to Misha over the phone and said she was prepared to meet with him at any time, wherever it was convenient for him.

Misha considered it convenient to call Gradskaya into Petrovka. Now he was expecting her any moment. Glancing at his watch, he neatly closed the file and put the two photos and a few papers concerning the witness into his desk drawer.

He heard a knock at the door.

In person, Regina Valentinovna Gradskaya looked even younger and more elegant than she did in the photograph. She was wearing a gray pencil skirt and a soft pink pullover. Everything about her image was thought through down to the smallest detail. Her boots and small purse were made of the same smoky-gray suede, and her nail polish and lipstick were a gentle matte pink, like her pullover.

His office filled with the subtle fragrance of expensive perfume, and her unnaturally white teeth sparkled as she gave him a warm smile. Gradskaya was the epitome of graciousness and charm. Her soft brown eyes looked at Sichkin with good will and honesty. Written in them was a readiness to answer any question he might ask and to tell him everything she knew about the tragic death of Yuri Azarov.

“Veronika Rogovets underwent rehabilitative therapy with me. She suffered from depressions connected to certain childhood traumas. She’s a very vulnerable young woman.”

“To be honest, I didn’t notice that.” Misha smiled. “Rarely have I had occasion to meet anyone so”—he coughed—“so confident.”

“That’s all just an act.” Gradskaya shook her head. “Believe me, the girl is torn up over Yuri’s death.”

“Has she come to you for help in the last few days?”

“Yes, she came to see me. Literally the same day as the murder. That very evening, in fact.”

“And did you help her?”

“Yes, in a way. I gave her support. She was in a terrible state. She was afraid whoever killed Yuri might kill her. She was afraid of being suspected of the murder. That’s what she said to me, that they always suspect the people closest to the victim. There was no one closer to Yuri. They were practically never apart. She was worried she’d be pulled in for questioning.”

“Did she consult with you about how best to behave during questioning?”

“Yes, she asked me how best to handle the conversation so that they would ‘leave me the fuck alone’—forgive the expression.”

“Well, that’s almost a legal consultation.” Misha grinned. “And what did you advise her, if I may ask?”

“What do you think?” Gradskaya smiled cunningly.

“Well, I think you gave her some practical advice. Judging from her behavior.”

“I’ll bet she flirted with you the whole time.” Regina laughed gaily. “I suspect you misread her and she misread me.”

“A bad game of telephone,” Misha commented, smiling in response to Regina’s gay laughter.

“Tell me, do you seriously think I instructed Veronika Rogovets in how to conduct herself during questioning?” she asked after she’d finished laughing.

“You just told me so yourself.”

“And do you believe she followed my instructions? Are you ruling out the possibility that Veronika conducted herself with you the same way she conducts herself with everyone else? Do you think I set her on a specific course and she followed that course like a windup toy?”

“Naturally, Rogovets isn’t a toy. However, you do have a definite influence on her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have turned to you for help.”

“If she had followed my advice, she would have told you the truth and only the truth,” Regina said quietly and seriously.

“Tell me, Regina Valentinovna, did you know Yuri Azarov well?”

“Not very.” Gradskaya shrugged. “I didn’t treat him.”

“From what you do know of him, could he have had serious debts?”

“What difference does it make what I think about that? Those are things you have to know definitively. I can only say one thing definitively: he never once borrowed money from me or my husband.”

When she’d gone, Misha’s head started pounding. The interview had left a nasty aftertaste. He had a hard time thinking and was all thumbs. Someone had recently told of him something similar. Very recently. Someone he knew had felt the exact same thing, a terrible weariness and a headache, after speaking with someone.

Misha tried to remember. Something was telling him that this was important. But his head was splitting and he couldn’t focus. “Did she hypnotize me, this Gradskaya?” he thought irritably.

After taking two aspirin, Misha made himself a cup of strong sweet tea. The headache abated a little, but it was still hard to think.

That night his wife made him take his temperature. It was high—101.3. No wonder.

Lena had had an insane day. She’d prepared and turned in all her department’s materials for the next issue—that is, she’d finished the work meant for the next ten days. She’d managed to order and purchase travel vouchers for that holiday house outside Moscow for Liza and Vera Fyodorovna, and had taken care of so many things, large and small, that even she was amazed.

Her one subordinate, Gosha Galitsyn, kept dialing the same number as he typed up the final paragraph of his article on some trendy rock group. Lena was waiting for him to finish. He’d promised to drive her home in his Volga. She cursed herself for the umpteenth time for failing to get a license.

“That’s it, let’s go!” Gosha sighed as he turned off his computer and dialed some number yet again.

“Who is it you’re trying to get through to?” Lena asked.

“Volkov!”

“Who’s that?”

“You’ve got to be joking, boss!” Gosha actually snorted. “Do you watch TV?”

“Rarely,” Lena admitted.

“And you’ve never heard of Veniamin Productions?”

“I probably have heard something.”

“Lena, you have to know these things. Veniamin Volkov is the number-one producer, the godfather of one in three pop stars.”

“Veniamin Volkov? Wait, I think I do know him.”

“Meaning what? You mean you know him? Personally?”

“There was a Young Communist by that name in Tobolsk, a very long time ago, fourteen years ago.”

Gosha grabbed a glitzy music magazine from the stack of papers on his desk, nervously leafed through it, and stuck a huge color centerfold under Lena’s nose.

A man and a woman were smiling from the page. The man was a balding blond with pale blue eyes and a narrow face. The woman was a forty-year-old brown-eyed beauty with hair the color of ripe wheat.

“Well? Is that him?” Gosha asked, holding his breath.

“Yes, that’s Venya Volkov. Only older and balder,” Lena replied distractedly.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s face. There was something vaguely familiar in the sleek, symmetrical face. Something vaguely and unpleasantly familiar.

“And who’s this woman?”

“His wife and business partner, Regina Gradskaya. Listen, Lena, does this mean you knew Volkov personally when he was still living in Tobolsk?”

“Gosha, I met lots of people all across the former Soviet Union. I went on one business trip after another. You don’t happen to know what his wife does, do you? Who is she?”

“I told you, she’s the co-owner of Veniamin Productions. Why should she do anything else? I think she’s a doctor or someone with ESP, like Kashpirovsky. What’s the difference? You mean you know her, too?”

“No. I don’t know her. I thought I’d seen her somewhere. Her smile’s familiar.”

“Listen, can you tell me about Volkov? All the details about what he was like then and what you guys talked about?”

“I’ll try, though I don’t understand why you’re so interested.”

“You can’t imagine how I could kill with that information! It’s an exclusive! Do you think he remembers you?”

“Unlikely.” Lena shrugged. “It’s been so many years. It was 1982. Late June.”

Regina couldn’t get a few sentences that Venya had uttered in a hypnotic state out of her head.

“She might have saved me. If she hadn’t rejected me then, I would have followed her anywhere. I could have conquered any desire. I felt something completely different for her, something new and strange for me, but probably normal for other people. I felt tenderness. I was afraid for her. I loved her. And I can’t forget her. But she didn’t care for me.”

“Who? Who are you talking about?” Regina asked in surprise.

“Polyanskaya,” he replied quietly.

“But you only knew her a week. It was so long ago. What makes her better than the others?”

“I don’t know… I could have been a normal man with her.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t lie or pretend. There was nothing flirtatious about her. I loved her like a man, not like an animal.”

“But did the first girl, Tanya Kostylyova, did she lie and pretend?” Regina asked cautiously.

“No. Now I know she didn’t. But I was a young fool. Back then I didn’t believe anything but my own hunger.”

“I taught you how to conquer that hunger,” Regina quietly reminded him.

“Yes. But she could have saved me, too. Before. And differently than the way you did.”

“You would have killed her eventually, just like the others. Only I taught you how to satisfy your hunger without killing.”

“Yes… Only you.”

Then he had the fit that usually signaled the end of their session.

Regina didn’t remind him of what he’d said under hypnosis. But she herself couldn’t forget it.

Throughout their life together, there had been lots of beautiful women around: print models, runway models, singers. But Regina trusted her husband. He didn’t sleep around. She convinced Venya that he might kill anyone he slept with. And he feared that more than anything in the world.

She had no grounds for jealousy because Venya was addicted to hypnosis. Their sessions were his drug. He couldn’t exist without them, which meant he depended wholly on Regina.

And now it turned out that he had once known ordinary human love in his life. It was such an acute and powerful idea that he could have rid himself of his psychological malady without Regina’s help. Of course, no normal woman would ever agree to live with him had she known what he had done. That arrogant Polyanskaya would have turned him over to the first cop she met. Had she known the truth, she would have felt only horror and revulsion for him.

She was pathetically normal. She didn’t contemplate life outside the framework of the commonly accepted morality. But it was to her, this banal, insipid doll, that the only healthy male emotion in Venya’s life had been directed.

Regina, who had invested her whole self in making him into what he was, had not won Venya’s first and last love. This bitch had.

For the first time in many years, real jealousy, deep and dark, awoke in her. But she dealt with that foolish, unnecessary emotion. She was sure she had. The problem wasn’t that Venya had once been in love with Polyanskaya and now suddenly, for no apparent reason, had remembered it. The problem was that this love was a dangerous and active witness to his first great crime. Every step she took was fraught with grave consequences for Venya, for Regina, and for their business.