The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey barely knew what to do with himself. On the one hand, the fact that Masha had caught him in a moment of weakness was humiliating. On the other, her response had been touching, the way she had immediately come to his aid, playing the role of his wife, no less. Touching, and flattering, too. He looked at her from across the table of the inexpensive café she’d thoughtfully picked. Andrey had to admit that if a girl like that actually were his wife, he never would have acted like such a helpless moron on those stairs. Of course, girls like Masha only married guys like… The intimidating figure of Innokenty rose up before his eyes. Guys who didn’t freeze up like assholes when they ran into ghosts from their past.

Masha told the waiter what she wanted, and Andrey pointed to the first thing he saw with meat in it. As the waiter walked away, he called after him, “And vodka! For two.”

“She was my first love,” he told Masha apologetically, then winked to show her how silly the whole thing was.

“I thought so,” Masha said, her voice serious, and she smiled uncertainly.

“We were supposed to take the capital by storm together, and my plan was to support her so she could focus on her writing. She wanted to get into the Institute of Literature.”

Why am I telling her all this? Andrey wondered, but it was too late to stop now. He looked down at the polyester tablecloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Masha’s folded hands with their short, unpolished fingernails.

“I thought I’d come get a job. But she wrote poetry. Bad poetry, probably, but I didn’t have a clue about that stuff.” He laughed again. “I still don’t.” Andrey looked up at her. “Do you like Asadov’s poems?”

“No,” Masha answered honestly, frowning a little.

“Well, Raya loved them.”

The waiter brought them a sweating carafe of vodka and some bread. He offered her some, but Masha declined. She took some bread, though, and started squeezing it in her fingers, molding it like clay. Andrey took a shot, then a long sniff from a crust of bread. Let her see how real Russians did it. And by real Russians, he meant provincials like him. He didn’t need a chaser. Andrey knew Masha was waiting for the rest of the story, and he didn’t mind giving it to her.

“She left me. Raya. Just like it always happens, for my best friend. For a little while, he really liked Asadov, too.” Andrey smiled again, and poured himself another shot. The vodka went down warm and smooth, and splashed into his empty stomach. His mood still wasn’t improving, but he was determined to finish the tale. “The problem was that she decided to leave me around the same time my father died of a stroke. There I was at his funeral, at the wake, and all I could think about was seeing her again, so she could console me or something, distract me from the nightmare at my parents’ house. Well, she did. She totally distracted me, no doubt about that. I could recite some Asadov for you, if you want. Romantic bullshit.” He tossed down another shot.

Masha smiled uncomfortably.

“A blow like that is nothing to laugh at, Karavay. Not when you’re seventeen. And especially when your head is full of corny poetry. But it turns out I’m a unique specimen! Indestructible! I flew off the fifth floor, and walked away with only scratches. I took too many sleeping pills, and they pumped my stomach. I even lay down on the train tracks, but the bastard hit the brakes in time, and they locked me up overnight for being an asshole. I would have tried some other things, but I started feeling bad for my mom, and I didn’t have enough imagination, anyway.”

Masha looked distraught.

“Did you think I’d give up sooner? I had to show some genuine dedication to get a job serving my motherland like this one!”

Masha moved to say something, but couldn’t make a sound. Instead, her eyes flashed suddenly, not with joy, but with a degrading, feminine pity, and something in her gaze made him tremble, made him desire the same thing he had hoped to find, so long ago, with Raya. Comfort. A reassuring hand on his shoulder.

But it’s way too late for that now, he thought, suddenly angry. And what right does she have to pity me? I’ve done enough of that for both of us!

“I understand,” Masha said suddenly, hiding her hands under the table as if trying to prevent them from reaching out to touch him. “That kind of thing can throw you off course. All you see in life is pain. It’s unbearable.”

“You understand, huh?” he said, smirking. Now Andrey was ashamed of his own cheap exhibitionism, and the mocking irony he had used to pose as the leading man in some sad romance turned abruptly into annoyance. The change was so powerful he could feel his eyes start to water.

“Is that right? You understand? What could you possibly understand, other than your serial killers? You play with them like Barbie dolls! You’re sick, Karavay! Who have you ever lost? You ever lose a love and a best friend and a father, all at once? You’re gonna tell me you know what it’s like to jump from a fifth-floor balcony? What has ever been wrong with your life? Not enough, what, truffles? Oh, I know!” Andrey laughed, loud enough that people at the other tables turned around to look. “They sent you last year’s collection from Italy!”

Masha stood up without saying a word. She put some cash down on the table and walked out of the café.

“You idiot!” Andrey shouted after her, even though he knew she probably couldn’t hear him. “You’re an idiot!” he called again, for the benefit of all those people at the other tables, who hurried to turn back around to their own plates.

The waiter brought Masha’s salad and his stew. But Andrey had lost his appetite. He finished his vodka, tossed some money on the table just like she had, and left.

Generally speaking, it is a bad idea to ever reveal any regrets in front of one’s pet. The animal might start to think its master capable of making mistakes, and that is impermissible, from the point of view both of the master’s reputation and the pet’s education. But Andrey had nobody to complain to but Marilyn Monroe.

“I’m such a jackass!” That had been Andrey’s refrain all morning, and he repeated it to the very understanding mutt again as he fried himself some eggs. “I’m a total jerk. First I play up what a poor victim I am, and then, when I get the effect I’m looking for, I turn on her and cuss her out! I’m a cretin, right?”

Marilyn Monroe’s furry face managed to express two things at once: You’re absolutely right! and You’re not a cretin at all! You’re the most wonderful person in the world! That reminded Andrey that he hadn’t fed his flunky yet. He sighed, and sliced the dog some sausage. Marilyn immediately switched his adoring gaze to the morsel in his bowl.

“You know what the worst part is? Yesterday she was acting like—” Andrey stopped to think and chew his eggs. Like a real friend, he thought. But he didn’t say that out loud, not even to Marilyn Monroe. It seemed fitting to call Masha Karavay a real friend, but also, somehow, disappointing. Andrey sighed, and pushed aside the cup with the rest of his instant coffee. He gave Marilyn a pat and walked out of the house, intending to make it in record time to Petrovka. And to Masha, damn it!

Half an hour later, when Andrey walked into the office and saw Masha’s part of the desk was empty, another sickening wave of guilt crashed over him. He picked up the phone, determined to call Masha all day, if he had to, until she answered. But then he remembered he didn’t have her number. Masha had always been the one to call him. He stood still for a second, then began rummaging through the pockets of the lighter denim jacket he reserved for warm weather. Somewhere in there should be a sturdy white business card, inscribed Innokenty Arzhenikov, Antiquarian in fancy calligraphy.

Innokenty Arzhenikov, antiquarian, would definitely have Masha’s phone number. And something told Andrey that Kenty knew it by heart.

Finally he found the elusive card. Innokenty answered.

“Hello,” said Andrey. “This is Andrey Yakovlev, Masha’s, um, boss.”

“Of course.” Andrey might have been imagining things, but he thought he caught a hint of irony in the antiquarian’s voice. “What can I do for you?”

“Masha isn’t at work,” Andrey said flatly. He was mad. “Given what’s been happening lately—” He paused.

“Right.” Innokenty sounded worried now, too. “That’s strange. Do you have her phone number? I’ll give it to you.”

Andrey wrote it down, said good-bye to Innokenty, and was just about to punch in Masha’s number when the telephone rang with an internal call. Anyutin was summoning him for a reckoning. Immediately.

Katyshev was waiting in the colonel’s office, too, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, but Andrey knew the rules of this game. Without letting his eyes drift over to the prosecutor, he reported what he knew about the situation at Pushkin Square. The lack of clues and horrific crime scene matched the murderer’s signature. There was no doubt, Andrey told them, a serial killer was loose in Moscow. Anyutin and Katyshev exchanged a look.

“Any theories?” Anyutin asked Andrey.

The captain made his decision. “My intern, Maria Karavay, has a theory that is somewhat unusual, but fits the overall scenario very well.”

“Let’s have it,” said Katyshev, tilting his gray head to one side.

“Heavenly Jerusalem.” Andrey had never actually pronounced that magical combination of words out loud before, and they resonated strangely in the colonel’s office.

“How’s that?” asked Anyutin, sounding lost.

Katyshev just stared at Andrey without a word.

“Heavenly Jerusalem. It’s some sort of legend, from the Bible. A holy city in the sky,” Andrey said, beginning to feel ridiculous. “There are points all around Moscow that are symbolically connected with it or with the real Jerusalem. That’s where the bodies are turning up. At first, we weren’t sure why the killer was moving the bodies, or parts of them. We thought he was trying to cover his tracks, maybe confuse us about timing. But he wanted to point us to places connected with Jerusalem and with the Middle Ages. He even uses medieval execution methods. We actually brought a historian in on the case,” Andrey added coolly, looking Anyutin right in the eye. “Now he’s predicted where we might find the next body.”

“Ridiculous!” Anyutin blurted out, but Katyshev hushed him.

“Go on,” he said.

By the time Andrey returned to his desk an hour later, he knew that his bosses believed him. Or, at least, they wanted to believe him. Andrey couldn’t blame them for being skeptical. He couldn’t completely believe it himself, even now. He needed to do some more digging. He would try to talk Anyutin into assigning a team to the case. They needed more help than a lone antiquarian could provide. He hadn’t forgotten about apologizing to Masha, but his guilt had dissipated a little. How many times had he stressed to Anyutin that this bold theory was all the intern’s work? It was kind of humiliating, sure, but it was only fair to give her the credit.

He really should try to reach her. But he also had a crapload of work to do.