The Sin Collector

ANDREY

Andrey worked up the nerve to invite Masha over only after he had pulled up to her front door.

“So, if you want,” he said, exhaling smoke out the open window of his old Ford, “we could go to my place?”

He could have said, Let’s go to my place and I’ll introduce you to Marilyn Monroe. Or I’ll show you what kind of place a cop who doesn’t take bribes can afford. I’ll show you the vinyl cloth on the table outside, worn down to its thready white skeleton. Or the creaking, mismatched chairs, the stained towel hanging near the rusty washbasin, the wallpaper that’s warped and uneven from the last freeze. Yeah, I have so much to show you, like nothing you’ve ever seen. No exquisite antiques here!

Why was it, he had asked himself many times, that in order to get a girl to come home with you, you had to offer to show her something completely beside the point? Like your old blues records or whatever. He looked at Masha and blushed.

“But only if you promise not to let my mess frighten you away,” he added out loud.

Masha turned her pale elfin face to him and let him see her eyes, which looked almost transparent in the darkness.

“Let’s go,” she said, and squeezed his hand hard.

And with a squealing of the brakes (now this was what his supercharged engine was good for!), he tore away from the curb before she changed her mind, heading for a place where the darkness would make the differences between them disappear. Faster. He had to go faster. The prospect of what remained of the night before them sent blood to Andrey’s head, and he felt himself growing warm, despite the breeze buffeting him from both open windows.

He handled the car expertly, as if he were playing a computer game or taking drugs. He was on something, actually, but this high was natural. This euphoria made his vision sharper, his reflexes quicker. Masha was curled up in her seat watching the road as if she, too, were willing the car to go faster.

Now they were past the outer ring road that circled the city, now they turned onto the highway that led out into the countryside, and now they were on a local road, where silent, dark houses lined both sides and the air smelled of fresh grass and wet sand. Finally, he stopped the car, turned off the engine, and sighed. He said it again, like casting a spell.

“Just don’t let my mess scare you away.”

But Masha had already gotten out of the car. She stretched like a cat, took a deep breath, and smiled at him, then took his hand. Andrey pushed open the gate and they walked up to the porch. From inside, Marilyn Monroe was begging for his freedom, barking and whining happily. When Andrey finally opened the door, the dog jumped on him, almost knocking him off his feet, and did the dance of a happy dog who knew he was finally about to have some dinner and play outside.

“Hey, look, buddy! This is Masha! It’s Masha!” he told him.

Marilyn took one look and unceremoniously stuck his snout under her skirt, then butted his woolly head into her hand and pawed at her bare knees.

Andrey fed the beggar and let him out to race around the garden. Then, for the first time since reaching his house, he turned to Masha, his euphoria giving way to trepidation. Where the hell were all the things he was supposed to have on hand for romance? Candles? A bottle of good wine? Silk fucking sheets, for God’s sake? He knew for sure, suddenly, that Kenty had all that at the ready.

“Want some tea?” he asked. “I don’t have any food, but—”

Masha shook her head without speaking and took a step forward. Andrey roughly pulled her closer to him, and with one hand behind her head, he moved his lips over her neck near her ear, hungrily breathing in her scent, and that smell—so right and so much hers—suddenly turned off his brain. Instead of thinking about his sheets (not only were they not silk, they weren’t even very clean), he was now operating on instinct. Who needed wine or candles?

Damn it, Masha Karavay, he thought, how can you be so smooth all over, everywhere my fingers and lips can reach? Every curve of her body felt like it was made for his hand. Her bare knee, her satiny shoulder, her small, soft breasts, the gentle hollow of her stomach. How could she have ever seemed foreign to him, when they were made for each other? Did it hurt her when he held her so tightly? His fingers were starving—what were they going to touch next? Masha, Masha, what are you doing to me? Look at me, Masha! Look me in the eye! But her eyes were shut tight, and she was writhing under him, moaning in the ultimate spasm of pleasure, and pressing her hot body against his. Andrey couldn’t hold back any longer, and he closed his eyes, too, letting a rush of release overtake him.

Andrey would have given almost anything for a smoke, but Masha’s head was resting on his shoulder and he was afraid to move. The sound of a gentle nighttime rain shower came in through the half-open window. The sheets were damp, but Andrey could feel the sweat slowly drying on his chest—the room had started to cool down. He pulled the blanket up over her. He listened to the rain and Marilyn Monroe trotting around outside, enjoying his long-overdue romp. Andrey was full of happiness, full as that old metal pail he’d left outside yesterday morning, hoping to catch some rainwater.

It wasn’t the floorboards creaking under the dog’s tread that awakened them, nor the rays of sunlight that stubbornly shot through the uncurtained window, nor even the morning clamor of his neighbors. It was the soft ringing of a cell phone. Andrey sighed with relief, because that wasn’t his ringtone, which meant the call wasn’t about work. But Masha got up, giving Andrey a look at her long, graceful back, and began digging through the heaps of clothing on the floor.

“Yes, Mama,” she said, her voice husky from sleep, when she finally found her phone. “Did you get my text? Yeah, everything’s fine.” The murmur on the other end broke into a sobbing sound, and Masha sat down, pulling a blanket up over her chest. “What is it, Mama? What happened? Why are you crying?” She sat there listening, her eyebrows raised high, nodding. “Anything could have happened, right? He lost his phone, he decided to stay at a friend’s place, who knows! Or maybe one of his patients had a crisis. There’s a first time for everything. It’s the weekend, maybe he had a couple of drinks, and—” More sobbing came through the phone. “Mama! Can you just hang on a little? I’ll be right there, okay?”

She hung up and turned to Andrey, looking distraught. “My stepfather is missing. I have to get back to Moscow.”

Andrey took Masha’s cheeks in his hands. Framed by his fingers, she looked like a scared, worried little girl. He kissed her on her forehead, her nose, on her warm lips, and on her cheek, which still retained traces of a crease in the pillowcase.

“Good morning!” he said. “You get dressed, and I’ll go put on some coffee.”

He grabbed yesterday’s shirt off the floor, gave it a quick sniff, and promised himself he’d switch it out for a clean one as soon as he got coffee started. Though that plan might fall through, Andrey admitted to himself as he walked into the kitchen, if he couldn’t find a clean shirt. And did he even have any real coffee? For two little cupfuls, at least? Or just one?

He nudged the pesky dog out of the way with one foot while he emptied his cupboard onto the table, learning a few new things about himself in the process. For instance, it turned out that he owned cinnamon. At least, that’s what the faded label said. As he turned the packet over in his hands, Andrey wondered whether you could put cinnamon in coffee. Or drink it instead of coffee? Then he discovered a box of spaghetti and a rusty bottle opener, a metal can of uncertain contents (good until October of last year), and a few stale crackers. But not a single goddamn trace of coffee, other than the instant garbage. He angrily threw the mystery can into the trash, even though he’d ordinarily have risked opening it and generously splitting whatever was inside with Marilyn.

The dog looked at him reproachfully, while the small pan Andrey had put on the rickety old gas burner in anticipation of the nonexistent coffee started to boil over and listed to one side. Without thinking, Andrey grabbed the aluminum handle, yipped in pain, and swore, just as Masha Karavay appeared before him. She was completely ready to go, and gave him a skeptical look.

“Uhhh,” said Andrey. “Sorry, no coffee in bed today. No coffee at all, actually. Unless you want instant?” Like an idiot, he picked up the container of Nescafé and dangled it before her.

“Maybe some tea?” Masha asked innocently, cheering him up beyond all measure—because he definitely had some Lipton.

She embraced him, hiding her smile in Andrey’s strong young chest.

“I’m stinky and gross,” he whispered, embarrassed, in her ear.

“That’s okay.” She looked at him and grinned. “If it gets me some tea, I’ll put up with it.”

She started kissing him, and pretty soon they both got carried away. Marilyn Monroe watched appraisingly, not yet ready to give up hope of breakfast.

But then Andrey’s own ringtone cut through the room.

“What?” he snapped into the phone.

He froze, and Masha did, too.

Again? her eyes asked him, all the dreaminess gone in an instant.

I don’t know, Andrey answered with a glance, squeezing her shoulder as if holding tight to the only solid mooring he could find in this nightmare.

They did not talk as they drove. Masha stared out the window, and Andrey squinted hard, concentrating on the road flashing by. He had just ordered Intern Karavay to go home to her mother and take care of family business—reassure her mom, track down her truant stepdad, make sure the two patched things up—and told her she didn’t need to mess around in murders on the weekend.

Masha was offended, which he certainly understood, but Andrey just couldn’t take her with him. Fomin, who had been first on the scene, had said it was fucking horrible and he had never seen anything like it, so that was one good reason. The other was some funny feeling, deep in his gut, which had given up whispering and was now shouting in his ear: Do not let Masha anywhere near this one!

They reached her building, Masha already opening the door so she could leap out without a word, but he pulled her inside and kissed her, even though she resisted like a proud little bird. Andrey hoped the kiss would sustain him through a day that was sure to be long and terrible. Poor girl, he thought as he watched her walk away. Nice boyfriend you found. No candles, no coffee in bed, not even tea on the veranda. He loved you and left you—for an unidentified corpse.

The crime scene was a rented apartment inside the boundaries of the old Bely Gorod walls, a line on the map Andrey thought of, these days, as a barrier of blood and flame. By the time he arrived, it was difficult to push his way up the crowded stairs. Even though it wasn’t a work day, every member of the investigative team had shown up, and they were standing around smoking and talking quietly, waiting for the forensics experts to wrap things up. Andrey bummed a cigarette off Fomin while the detective piled information on him in an excited whisper. The body had been found in some kind of coffin thing shaped like an enormous doll, with sharp nails poking into the hollow inner chamber. The murderer had closed the victim inside, so the nails pierced his arms, legs, stomach, eyes…

“You can’t even get a good look at him!” Fomin told Andrey, his eyes wide and serious. “Blood everywhere! Poor bastard tried to wriggle out of the way, and the fucking nails only dug deeper.” Fomin took a deep breath. He apparently did not relish the memory.

“Who called the police?” Andrey asked.

“Only about three different neighbors, all on their own. Apparently, the killer hit him over the head to knock him out, then stuffed him into that doll-thing. But the guy woke up and started yelling.” Fomin went pale again, imagining the screams.

Andrey told him and Gerasimov to go interview the neighbors, and he headed up to visit the apartment in question. He stood next to the forensic examiner and leaned over the body. It really was hard to look at it, smeared all over with blood, and the face… Looking for long at that face, frozen and distorted in a spasm of terror, was completely out of the question.

“Anything in his pockets?” Andrey asked hoarsely, tearing his eyes away from the dead man’s hideous, white-toothed grin.

“Here.”

Someone handed him a transparent plastic sleeve holding a photograph of a man smiling happily, holding a woman close to him. The man was obviously the same one lying before them now, being covered modestly with a sheet. Andrey gestured that they could take the body away. But the woman—the woman in the picture looked strangely familiar. When it occurred to Andrey that her lips were just like Masha’s, his stomach turned. How fucking lovestruck must he be, to see her face everywhere he looked? Then he remembered the face at the door to Masha’s place. Masha’s not home. Her books are gone, so she’s probably at the library. That was Masha’s mom in the picture, and the guy had to be her missing stepfather. Which meant he must be the poor soul who’d spent the night in the iron maiden. Masha! Andrey’s legs went out from under him, and he sat down hard on a chair. It was all leading back to her again. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Even the question seemed ridiculous. The Sin Collector had chosen this victim purely because he was close to Masha. And, of course, because Masha’s stepfather somehow fit into that fucking table that Masha herself had copied out for the team.

Andrey pulled the sheet of paper out of the back pocket of his jeans. Her stepfather hadn’t been missing for long, so assuming the killer was working in order, his sin must be even worse than that pedophile Minayev’s. There were only two tollhouses on the list after the one for sodomy: nineteen and twenty, heresy and cruelheartedness. Masha’s stepfather, as far as Andrey could guess from Masha’s conversation with her mother that morning, was a doctor. Maybe he had been too stern with one of his patients? Or, cruelheartedly, hadn’t realized how sick one actually was? A mental patient would be easier to finger for the crime than an Old Believer. Not a bad theory, but it would need work. Masha’s stepdad could just as easily have been, say, a Baptist, which was definitely heresy to the Orthodox faithful. Then he’d fit the bill for the second-to-last tollhouse.

He would have to tell Masha. He would have to call her, and interrupt the painful and humiliating routine she and her mother must be going through right now, calling around to all the hospitals asking if he had been admitted, calling all their friends and relatives to see if he had spent the night. What was that humiliation, though, compared to the truth: that he was a cold dead body, poked full of holes, with a picture of Masha’s mother in his pocket? No. Andrey wanted to give himself just a few more minutes before he dialed the number he already knew by heart. A few more minutes to think.

He read the table again, frowning. It seemed like the suspect had been making mistakes in his order, jumping around. It was as if, once he realized the police were onto him, he stopped taking the trouble. The pattern skipped forward and backward like kids playing a game. And another thing: Why had the killer put a family photograph in his victim’s pocket? Was it because Masha’s mother was somehow tied up in his plot? Andrey sighed out loud, and with a heavy heart, he took out his phone. He needed Masha’s help. Awful as it was, she wasn’t just a detective in this case anymore. She was a witness, too. It was as if the killer wanted to involve her in every part of the process, from theory to practice, from investigation to evidence, from evidence—Andrey couldn’t help but finish the thought—to complicity.

Fomin was sitting across from the downstairs neighbor, a middle-aged woman with an unhealthy pallor. The color of her skin was explained by the stale odor of cigarette smoke, which permeated the miserly little apartment, and by the woman’s profession. She was a technical translator. In her kitchen, which also served as her office, there was an old laptop and a stack of instruction manuals for all sorts of high-tech kitchen gadgets: microwaves and pressure cookers, bread makers, blenders, and deep fryers. The only machine that graced her own tiny kitchen was an ancient refrigerator trembling in a senile state of exaltation. Wrapped up as she was in the written word, the woman had little opportunity to speak with live human beings, so she was eager for a nice talk, even if it had to be with a police officer.

Fomin had already given up asking questions. Why bother if the woman was going to tell him everything with no prodding? She was doing a good job, too, speaking precisely without getting distracted by the details. This might be a lucky day for the redhead. Fomin classified every circumstance in his life one of two ways: either the redhead was lucky, or he was not. Conveniently enough, those two categories had been all he needed for the past twenty-six years. New girlfriend? The redhead was lucky. No place to start a family? Unlucky. The girl leaves him for some other guy? Probably the redhead was lucky, because what was he going to do with her with no place to live? And so on and so forth.

The apartment above hers, the neighbor said, had been largely empty, used exclusively for lovers’ frolics. That’s how she put it: frolics.

“Are you certain?” Fomin asked.

“There’s no mistaking it,” said the translator. “You can hear everything. The couple would come over, sometimes at lunchtime, sometimes in the evening. And they’d have sex.” She spat the word. “Basically,” the woman went on, nodding, “around a year ago, a very sophisticated couple rented the place. He looked like a professor.” Fomin felt goose bumps tickling his skin, remembering the man in the wooden doll. “And she looked like a professor’s pet student. Much younger than him, very pretty. It was the usual story. An older man drawn to some fresh meat.” The translator snorted and sneered dismissively, hoping for some sort of reaction, but Fomin did not play along, just nodded calmly to encourage her to go ahead.

These sophisticated-looking people had made love in a very unsophisticated manner, moaning and screaming, bothering the downstairs neighbor (and the neighbors next door, she pointed out) as she tried to cook dinner, take a shower, or watch the evening news. The passionate struggles up above made the translator’s old Czech chandelier swing from the ceiling, and made her smoke nervously and ponder her fate as a single woman. But the funniest part was that she would sometimes run into them on the dimly lit stairs or in the elevator, and somehow she never could say a cross word to them. That’s the benefit of looking so sophisticated. It intimidates people. It wasn’t worth scolding them, anyway. Those two didn’t rendezvous so often, not more than once a week, and the moans from above were honestly easier to tolerate than, say, the young couple with the new baby who were always fighting and had already let their tub overflow into her place three times now. At least there was the excitement and suspense of secret passion with the people upstairs.

“But yesterday—” The neighbor frowned. “Everything started like usual. He arrived first, probably around four o’clock. I can tell it’s him by the heavy shoes. She wears these little heels. I heard his key turn in the lock and then the door open and shut. But she never turned up. No heels tapping on the stairs, no elevator stopping on the floor above me.”

Fomin laughed to himself. The secret romance had drawn the neighbor woman in a lot deeper than she wanted to admit.

“Maybe half an hour passed, I was already getting dinner ready, when the door opened and shut again. I thought the man had gotten tired of waiting and left, but no. It was somebody else going into that apartment.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t the woman?” Fomin asked.

“No!” the translator answered him excitedly. “I didn’t hear any noise on the stairs. And the elevator makes a terrible racket, you can’t miss it. No. It was somebody who came down from the floor above that one.”

“So that person had been waiting?” Fomin asked thoughtfully.

“Maybe.” She nodded and reached for her packet of cigarettes. “I heard the doorbell ring up there, a long ring, and then I think I heard a male voice.”

Fomin was giving the neighbor all his attention now.

She blew cigarette smoke out the small, open window, with its peeling paint and crooked hinges. She paused. “It sounded like he said—”

“Yes?” Fomin pressed.

The translator looked at Fomin again, and for the first time, she looked frightened.

“‘Open up! It’s me!’”