The Sin Collector

MASHA

At almost exactly the same time, Fomin came back on the other line.

“Okay, I have the visitor log. Today the victim had three afternoon meetings. Here’s the last one: N. N. Katyshev. In at 7:15, out at 7:45.”

“Which door did he use? Did he leave through the reception area?”

“Well, yeah,” said Fomin, not understanding. “It was all by the book. Here’s the signature, they gave him a pass—”

Andrey swore, glancing at Masha. “Get back to Petrovka,” he ordered Fomin. Furious, he slammed the phone down on the dashboard.

Masha knew why he was so livid. It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet. They had come so close. The killer could have been any one of the ghostly silhouettes of pedestrians hurrying by.

“He’ll never go home again,” Masha said quietly. “And I doubt he’ll go back to the dacha. Let me think.”

They parked, and Masha spread the map from the cellar across her knees. She peered at the web of downtown streets and at the holes from the pins scattered here and there over the pale-green background. So, Masha thought. Now we look at it the other way around. She started very methodically, one by one, to count off the places the murders had been committed. Bersenevskaya waterfront. Lenivka. Pushkin Square. Kolomenskoye. As she counted, she smoothed over each pinhole in the paper with her finger. She felt as if she were releasing those old names of the streets and squares from their terrible history, setting them free again. Her finger faltered for a moment when she came to Poklonnaya Hill. Andrey opened the window and smoked a cigarette, never taking his eyes off of her. Lubyansky, Nikolskaya, Prechistenka. One remained. One mark, almost in the center of the map, where there were already more than enough pinholes.

Masha picked up the map and held it closer to her eyes. She read the name, then turned her pale face to Andrey.

“There it is,” she said. “Do you see? He had everything ready for us.”

“What do you mean?” Andrey tossed his cigarette out the window and took the map from her.

“A few of the tollhouses, a few of the murders, were missing. I thought that Nick-Nick—that the killer—must have committed them, but we didn’t know where to look. But here on the map, there are exactly enough pinholes for every victim we’ve found, including the murder he committed today… and one more. There was an extra pin on the map, Andrey.”

“And what does that mean?”

Masha spoke slowly. “I think he allowed for the possibility that we might find his lair. And if we did, and found his map, then he would have no way back. So he left just one extra pin on the map, a place he could return to, if necessary, after he made it through all the tollhouses. That pin marked a place we haven’t connected with a killing yet. But…” Masha paused, then went on, her voice flat. “But it was on the list that Kenty made.”

“Are you saying he’s asking the two of us for a meeting?” asked Andrey, incredulous.

Masha nodded.

“At”—Andrey squinted and read the tiny lettering, barely legible in the dim light of the car—“Vasilevsky Slope?”

“At Vasilevsky Slope.”