The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey caught Masha on her way into the building, at the bottom of the staircase.

“Masha!” he called, and saw her shoulders tighten. Did she still expect him to call her Intern Karavay? Or was Masha afraid of him?

Earlier, that discovery would have given him a certain amount of satisfaction, like all was right in the world. Interns, even the kind who got in on connections rather than merit, were supposed to be scared of their bosses. But after lunch today, her fear suddenly seemed like an insult. What the hell did I do to you to make you so frightened?

Masha turned her head and smiled uncomfortably. “Yes, Captain?”

Suddenly, all his annoyance evaporated.

“I wanted to tell you,” he began, “that despite my, you know, objective critique, your theory is a good one. Good, but incomplete, understand? This isn’t about figuring out all the creepy medieval junk. If we’re really talking about a serial killer, we’ll need to go big, put a task force together. And for that to happen, first we need to make sure our reasoning is ironclad. Otherwise they’ll never give us extra people or resources.”

Masha grinned gratefully and tucked her hair behind her ear again, but this time with none of the haughtiness she had displayed at the restaurant.

Andrey’s eyes followed her hand mechanically. Her ear was small, and it wasn’t pierced, but there was a tiny freckle on her earlobe.

“Yes,” she said, “I completely understand. I wanted to ask you—it would be nice to talk with the witnesses in those cases again. It seems to me that would be the simplest way to figure out how the killer caught his victims, what kind of pattern he was following.”

“That would be a lot of work.” Andrey forced his gaze away from her ear. The intern was looking directly at him. Masha Karavay’s eyes were light green and glowed with calm expectation.

“I could get through a lot of it myself if you’d allow Innokenty to work with me,” she said uncertainly.

Andrey didn’t like that idea. He looked down at his worn-out sneakers, and remembered her friend’s designer shoes.

“Doesn’t he have anything better to do?” he asked.

“He’s a historian, an antiques dealer. He specializes in seventeenth-century religious icons,” Masha said quickly. “What I mean is, his schedule is flexible. He doesn’t need to go into work every day.”

“Fine. Work with him,” Andrey said drily, and he turned and walked off without saying good-bye.

Andrey knew he was acting like a jerk, but he had no idea why. Could it be because he knew he could never compete with some fancy-pants antiques dealer? So if the game was lost from the start, why get so worked up about it? What game, you moron? he asked himself as he opened the door to his banged-up old Ford. Are you tormenting her, like a school kid who bullies the girl he likes?