The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

CHAPTER 7

We were buddies now, the dead girl’s charming father and I. Romanov actually had the nerve to open a gap in his elbow for my arm so we could walk to Iskra’s hotel like old friends or new lovers headed for a café in Prague. I took him up on his offer and walked arm-in-arm with him to further earn his trust to help my investigation. Never had I been happier to be snuggled close to a man who’d called me trash. Humility was an indispensible weapon in the arsenal that was going to lead me to the pretty boy who had eluded my chase. It was also one of the hardest weapons to deploy because when you needed it the most you wanted it the least.

Romanov led me to a row of houses packed wall-to-wall. A bell-shaped gable topped the building that contained Iskra’s apartment. A lattice of iron rods was strapped to each side of the house.

“To keep it upright,” Romanov said, when he noticed I was staring at the rods. “The houses in Jordaan were built on thousands of logs. They were pounded into the ground because it’s so wet. If you look closely, you can see the house is leaning a little bit to the right. Without support, it would eventually crumble. I told my wife this was an unstable place for our daughter to live. But my wife only listens when she’s speaking.”

We took the stairs to the second floor. The police had cordoned off the door to the apartment with red and white tape featuring the words POLITIE—NIET BETREDEN. I remembered what Romanov had said about needing to behave himself in Amsterdam but evidently his interpretation of my ethnic heritage had unleashed his machismo. He ripped the tape from one side of the door frame like a matador snapping his cape, not worrying about whether he could re-attach it later. Then he took out his key and unlocked the door. The door jam and lock appeared in perfect condition.

“When you got here that day,” I said, “was the door open?”

“It was closed but unlocked.”

“And the windows?”

“The big windows in the living room can’t be opened. The side windows in the bathroom and bedroom were locked from the inside.”

“So whoever killed her knew her.”

“I wouldn’t know what the police are thinking. Maybe if I was Dutch they’d keep me informed.”

Romanov opened the door. The apartment opened into a living room which led to a kitchen in an open floor plan. Two interior doors stood open along the wall on the left. I could see the edge of a bed in one room, and bathroom tile on the floor of the other.

“Who else has a key?” I said.

“Besides Iskra? My wife and I have a key.”

Black powder stains revealed latent fingerprints on the walls, chairs and tables, and built-in cabinetry. Even from a distance I could see them all over the kitchen countertops. Other than the powder stains, however, the apartment was surprisingly well-organized given it had belonged to a twenty-something single girl.

“Did Iskra have a cleaning lady?” I said.

“Yes. An old Indonesian woman. I’m sure she had a key, too.”

“Who else?”

He shrugged. “A man. A boy. Ten men. I have no way of knowing. Like I said, we gave her space.”

The furniture was sleek, modern Dutch, not dissimilar to a Scandinavian design but more whimsical, with more curvaceous and lacquered finishes. Film and theater posters with dance themes hung on the walls. The kitchen gleamed apart from the print marks. I pulled my sleeve over my fingers and opened the fridge. A tray full of energy drinks, half a dozen yogurts, a jar of pickled herring, milk, pineapple juice, a huge bar of Tony’s Milk Chocolate, and ten bottles of beer filled the shelves. The beer was a brand called Brugse Zot. From Belgium.

I closed the refrigerator door and studied the kitchen. The more I looked around, the more I wondered how I’d had the nerve to take this assignment. I’d told myself that the investigation of a crime was a matter of logic and common sense, that my forensic financial skills would translate. But now that I was visiting an actual crime scene, my inexperience and uncertainty asserted themselves. I feared Romanov would sense my indecision, detect my incompetence, and label me a fraud any moment.

As it turned out, he had his own issues.

“I… I can’t go in there with you,” he said.

He stood at the entry to the kitchen, arms wrapped around his chest, eyes pointed diagonally toward the floor like a socially awkward teen. Up until this point, he’d been a type A personality, the king of eye contact.

I knew he was referring to the bedroom because I knew that’s where Iskra had been killed. I knew what he was talking about because I felt the same dread in the pit of my own stomach. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to see the room myself, yet there were my feet moving toward it with morbid anticipation. The discovery of fraud, embezzlement or an undervalued investment opportunity had always invigorated me. The moment of discovery—that instant when numbers leapt off a financial statement and transformed themselves into a firm conclusion—was the juice that fueled countless hours of labor. My walk toward the bedroom, however, galvanized my senses even more dramatically.

Light spilled through sheer curtains covering the window on the right side of the room. Streaks and splashes of blood in the shape of a wide-bodied cross marred the center of the opposite wall. The center area below the place where her Iskra’s pubic region would have rested contained the most blood. In fact, so much blood had spilled from her body that the wallboard appeared black. The image of a man hacking away at Iskra’s torso flashed before me. I suffered a wave of nausea.

The four points of crucifixion defined the upper and lower boundaries of the blood-stained canvas. The area of the wall surrounding the screw holes were also stained black. I walked around the bed to get a close-up look. The light-colored hardwood floor looked more like redwood as I approached the place of crucifixion.

The crime could have been a random act of violence, but given Iskra had most likely known her killer I doubted it. I wondered what kind of passion had inspired such a level of hate, gazed at the wall and wondered what else I could deduce that could be of value. As is so often the case with company analyses, I saw nothing. But I didn’t allow frustration to overwhelm me. Instead I stood there staring at the blood-splattered wall, telling myself over-and-over again that patience was a prerequisite to success. This, in turn, relaxed me and kept my mind straight.

Still, nothing came to me.

“Are you okay in there?” Romanov said.

I told him I was fine and that I would be out in a moment. I decided to rest my eyes and divert my focus. I looked around the rest of the bedroom. Two pillows, stacked one on top of the other, contained indentations of a human head. The comforter, similarly matted in the shape of a human being, also remained untouched. There were no electronic devices in the room, no computer, phone, or music playing devices. The police might have removed them for analysis if they’d been here, I thought.

A closet contained an assortment of clothes and boxes on a shelf. I didn’t reach for any of the boxes, nor did I rifle through the bureau beside the window opposite the wall of death. If there had been anything of interest in either of those places, the police would have secured it as evidence by now. I didn’t delude myself into thinking I’d find some clue the police might have overlooked. My forte was the interpretation of that which was visible.

The bureau also contained a collection of pictures, each standing upright in frames of various sizes. Most of them featured Iskra alone, with female friends or her family. One of the family pictures, the size of a playing card, included Iskra, her parents, and a nerdy-looking boy in glasses. Iskra and the boy looked like young teens in the picture.

I removed some tissue from my bag and used it to avoid contaminating the frames with my fingertips. Then I carried the photo into the living room and showed it to Romanov.

“Who’s this boy?” I said.

He narrowed his eyes and studied the picture. It was the first time I’d looked at Romanov since I’d gone into the bedroom, and his face had turned ashen in the interim. He looked as though he was fading in proportion to the time I spent at the crime scene, and if we remained in the apartment another hour, he might die from the stress.

“That’s just Sasha.” Romanov shook his head as though he were irrelevant. “Friend of the family. Sasha’s parents moved here before we did. I knew her father forever. He and Iskra were friends.”

“Just friends?”

He cracked a weary grin as though the prospect of them being romantically linked was a joke. “Yes, just friends. Sasha is a good boy, but he’s Sasha, you understand—”

Feet clattered outside the door.

De Vroom burst into the room. Another man in a suit and two uniformed cops followed. De Vroom looked like a completely different human being from the one who’d interviewed me in jail. Gone was the smug look of a calculating cop intent on getting the information he wanted. In its place was fury.

“What are you doing here?” he said.

“This woman is a friend of the family,” Romanov said in decent English. “She’s here at my request.”

“Your request?” De Vroom said. “You have no business being here either. This is a crime scene. When you took down that tape, you broke the law.”

Romanov brought his wrists together and offered them to De Vroom. “Go ahead, then. Arrest a grieving father. After all, I’m Russian, so you want to prosecute me for something, don’t you?”

De Vroom averted Romanov’s eyes, turned to me, and ripped the frame out of my hands. “And this is evidence in a murder investigation.” He glanced at the picture, looked at both of us as though we deserved the firing squad, and handed the picture back to his colleague. “You,” he said, pointing at me, “outside. Now.”

He insisted I go down the stairs first. I could feel him so close behind me I was afraid he’d step on the back of my shoe.

We exited the apartment building. The sight of the canal and the blue sky above would have been welcome relief if De Vroom hadn’t been with me.

“Did you run that license plate?” I said.

“You will cease all investigations into this case immediately. You will leave Amsterdam at once. If I find you nosing around the murder of Iskra Romanova one more time, we’ll forget about our arrangement. I’ll press charges against you for obstructing justice, illegal prostitution, and being a menace to the Netherlands. I’ll have you deported, banned, and ex-communicated from whatever godforsaken church accepts you as a member.”

He was hurling so many bombs at me I had to take a second to make sure he was done. Only then did I speak.

“Yeah, but did you run that plate?” I said.

His cheeks puffed up so much he actually stopped being handsome for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and lowered his voice to a whisper, so gentle and infused with such genuine-sounding concern that I lost my breath.

“For your own safety, Nadia,” he said. It was the first time he’d ever used my Christian name, and it put fear in my heart. “You must stop this now. You must leave Amsterdam now.”

With that he turned and marched back up stairs and into the apartment building. When the door shut behind him, I knew not to follow him back inside. I knew not to wait for Romanov. If De Vroom saw me waiting for him, that alone could set him off into following up on his threat, and I couldn’t take that risk.

I headed back along the canal toward my hotel instead. With each step, De Vroom’s heartfelt warning left a deeper impression on me. He had run the plate. Perhaps the owner of the Porsche Macan was so dangerous that my life would be in jeopardy if I went near him. I thought of the crime lords who controlled the sex and drug trades in Amsterdam and what they might be capable of doing to protect their businesses. After De Vroom’s warning, only an addict would pursue this case. Only a woman with a compulsive need to prove herself would dare continue.

And as I looked onto the canal and wondered if I were such a person, the obvious hit me. It hit me straight on, like a six-inch screw that penetrated paint and sheet-rock and sank deep into wood on the first try.

A spare anchor on a boat moored beside the road on the edge of the canal reminded me of the help I’d once given my father. He’d needed to hang a Ukrainian-Catholic cross, the kind with three bars going perpendicular to the vertical one, with the bottom one at an angle. This particular cross was made of iron and required an anchor—a wall anchor. The teeth of the wall anchor gripped the sheet rock and kept the wallboard from crumbling under the heavy weight. Wall anchors required large holes and their removal left visible gashes in the sheet rock.

The holes in the wall where Iskra had been crucified had been perfect, round holes. That meant the screws had hit the wood that supported the wallboard perfectly. The wood behind the wallboard usually consisted of two-inch by four-inch studs spaced intermittently. The only way to know the exact location of the two-by-fours was by using a stud-finder, which often employed a magnet to detect the screws that secured the sheetrock to the wood.

Iskra’s killer had not only brought screws and a driver-drill to the crime scene, he’d brought a stud finder, too. Her killing had been a pre-meditated murder planned with precision. My suspicion was that the killer was a friend, that Iskra had let him in, and that he’d executed a plan he’d imagined for days, weeks, or even months. He’d dreamed about driving the screws precisely where they needed to go for her bodyweight to be supported, relished the thought of slicing her feminine body parts from the rest of her body with a knife. And he’d probably had help. It would have been difficult for one man to hold the body and drive the screws into the wood.

This was a crime of passion and a cold-blooded killing.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Simmy.

I needed the name and address of the owner of that damn car.