The Sin Collector

MASHA

Masha and Innokenty sat together in his car outside her building. He wasn’t talking anymore, just holding her lifeless hand in his, and she felt like crying. Why shouldn’t she cry here, with Innokenty? She had forbidden herself to indulge in things like that in front of her mother ever since her father’s funeral. She didn’t want to add to her grief. She wanted to protect her. But now she found she could not cry. Masha gently withdrew her hand from Kenty’s and reached to grab her purse from the backseat.

“I’m gonna go,” she said.

“Are you okay? Can I walk you to the door?”

“You sound like an American movie,” she huffed. “I’m not okay, but I’m much better off than Katya. I think I can find the door myself.” She got out, walked into the building, and headed for the elevator. The doors opened, and out walked Andrey Yakovlev.

Masha was surprised, but in a passive kind of way. So you’re here, she thought. Why is that? Masha saw the pity in his eyes, and she looked away. She knew her eyes were puffy, and her face was pale. Damn it. She had wanted her boss to be impressed with her talents as a detective, but instead here he was looking at her with that mix of judgment and sympathy you direct at an old lady you’re about to give your seat to on the subway.

“Hello,” she said, surprised at the dull, heavy sound of her own voice.

“Masha, I was just talking to your stepfather. He said you were at the wake. I tried to call—”

“I turned off my phone. Did you need something?”

“Yeah,” said Yakovlev, finally catching her eye. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. Come upstairs.”

“Umm… I’d rather do this on neutral territory, if that’s okay.”

Masha nodded indifferently. She walked back outside and sat on a bench. Yakovlev settled down awkwardly next to her, unsure how to start. Masha didn’t speak, either, remembering the bench she had sat on in front of Katya’s building. A place she had gone today for the first and probably the last time.

“Too late,” she said quietly.

“What?” asked Yakovlev.

“I’m a bad friend,” said Masha, turning to look at him with a sad, almost childlike gaze, her lips twisted strangely in a contradictory grin.

He looked away. “We all feel like bad people when the people we love die,” he said, looking down at Masha’s delicate fingers, clasped tight between her knees. On one of her wrists a collection of thin silver bracelets sparkled in the deepening twilight. “Who ever says, when their mother dies, that they were a good child? Right? I’m sure you were a really good friend.” Yakovlev looked right at her. His eyes seemed completely black.

“Why do you think so?”

He sighed, and spoke up. “Because if that wasn’t true, you wouldn’t be so upset right now, would you?”

Neither of them said a word.

“Masha. Listen, forgive me, but I need to talk to you about your friend’s death.”

Masha frowned. “What do you mean?”

Andrey heaved another sigh. “Katya’s death wasn’t an accident, Karavay. The autopsy didn’t reveal anything conclusive, but it raised a lot of questions. Then we examined the vehicle and found things that confirmed our suspicions.”

Masha said nothing.

“Your friend was murdered.”

In a flash, Masha thought she must have been plunged underwater like that unlucky bastard Yelnik. She couldn’t breathe. All she could feel was her own dark blood pumping in melodramatic slow motion through her veins, and coming to pound like mad in her ears.

“Masha!”

Yakovlev’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“Via Dolorosa,” Masha whispered. Then the darkness engulfed her.

She woke up on the ground by the bench, a painful cramp in her neck. She pushed herself up and tried, with a moan, to turn her head. Her eyes fell on a pair of blue jeans which smelled faintly of tobacco.

“Feeling better?” She heard her boss’s voice above her. “I gave you a couple of slaps on the cheek. Sorry.”

Masha put one hand to her face and felt the burning. Yakovlev propped her up slowly, one arm around her waist.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated hoarsely. “This isn’t how a professional is supposed to treat his intern, but when you passed out, I thought I’d better—”

“No. It’s okay,” Masha said automatically.

“Masha,” he said, “listen to me, please. Katya’s death was not your fault. But at the same time, we can’t rule out the possibility that her accident was connected, somehow, with the killer we’re investigating, the one I wasn’t convinced actually existed.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I think you were right—your theory. Though I guess that won’t make you very happy, given the circumstances. You said something before you fainted, by the way.”

“I’ve never fainted before,” Masha said pensively.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Yakovlev replied. “But what did you say? Do you remember?”

“Via Dolorosa. Do you remember, Captain—”

“Look, just call me Andrey, all right? I mean, I slapped you, so we’re friends now,” Andrey tried to joke.

“Andrey, remember how we talked about Jerusalem and how it maps onto Moscow? Nikolskaya Street, according to Innokenty, corresponds with the Via Dolorosa.”

“Oh,” said Andrey, blinking.

“There’s something else, too. But this is really nuts.” Masha looked up at him. “The thing is, Katya was wearing my clothes.”

“I know,” said Andrey, nodding. He took her hand in his. The gesture seemed so natural that Masha didn’t pull back. Instead, she squeezed his hand tight.

“Katya used to borrow clothes from me all the time. But this time, everything she had on was mine—even her underwear! You have to agree that’s weird. And—” Masha faltered.

“You can tell me.”

“The only things she was wearing that belonged to her were these ten bracelets.” Masha held out her arm, and the bracelets jingled quietly. Andrey tossed a distracted glance at them. “And another strange thing: she took a couple of pieces of jewelry from my mother. These.” Masha fished around in her purse. “It’s another bracelet, and a ring. Nothing too special. My mom never even noticed they were gone—but that’s not the point. They don’t match.”

“What?”

“They don’t match, Andrey, and Katya paid very close attention to things like that. White gold doesn’t go with yellow gold, your earrings should match your ring, and so on. I even made fun of her sometimes for it, but she always told me that since I never wore jewelry, I wouldn’t understand. But, on a basic level, anyway, I get it.”

Andrey raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“White metal. Silver. Does not match gold. Which is yellow.”

“Huh,” said Andrey.

“And then,” Masha fiddled with the bracelets, thinking, “Katya’s mom confirmed what I remembered: Katya bought these her first year in college.” Masha raised her eyes to look at Andrey. “Now there are ten of them. But… there used to be more.”