Murder in Ukraine (2 page)

Volodney takes off his shoes, and Sanya follows suit, and the two men walk to the top of the floor, open the black netting at the entrance, and somersault onto the trampoline to the jeers of Philip’s fans.  I step back and wait as the detectives bounce up and down, and then Sanya does two forward flips toward the end of the trampoline where Philip and one of his girl fans link hands, still filming, and cavort in a circle.

When Sanya plants his final landing, Philip’s girl admirer kicks at him hard, but misses, and she bounces into the ball pit and sinks from view. Volodney and Sanya each grab a Deruga appendage and start hauling him toward the black net at the top.

I see an opportunity to help, but a gopnik thug blocks me and shoves me into the ball pit.  I panic because I’m head down in six feet of rubber balls, and I thrash around trying to find daylight. The gopnuks converge on Sanya and Volodney, Volodney gets cracked across the face, and Sanya, like me, falls into the rubber balls trying to hold onto Philip, who shrugs out of his satiny, shiny blue jersey just in time, grabs his shoes and camera, and runs away giggling.  And filming. 

Sanya pulls himself out of the ball pit, brandishing the jersey like a trophy, and Volodney offers me a hand. 

We regroup in the food court and order kvass, blini, and borscht at Teremok. “He didn’t commit murder,” opines Volodney. “He’s enjoying the easy life; he’s a punk, not a killer.”

Sanya nods in equable agreement.

I seem to be the only one who’s bummed.  I feel that I should remind them why we’re here, that a girl was found dead between a dumpster and a cracked toilet bowl, but after struggling with the sentiment, I say nothing.

“Tomorrow we go skiing,” decides Sanya Zubov, brushing beads of red caviar from his lips with a fingertip.  I assume he’s planning to tackle Pasha Bulychuk, hacksaw boy, who’s next on the list of suspects.

“You’ll make travel arrangements,” he says, making eye contact with me. 

Suddenly I’m not bummed anymore; lovely chemicals are flooding my brain, and I’m floating.

****

At home, I give the kids the candy I bought at the Moscow airport; it’s the same stuff Anna buys them at Cash and Carry, but they’re thrilled it’s been flown to them all the way from Moscow. 

I hand my sister a wrinkled grocery bag.

“What’s this?”  She wrinkles her nose as if she might find something jokey and dubious, but inside is Philip Deruga’s signature Dynamo sports jersey. 

“No way,” says Anna.  She doesn’t ask how I got it, nor whether she can keep it.  She has a look of naked happiness as she rubs it against her cheek, then she scuttles away in her flip flops. The children look toward me as if I’ve spooked their mother, wanting an answer, chewing gummies.  Klem decides he’s been slighted, and wails angrily. 

****

Volodney calls just as my cat Masha and I are getting ready for bed.  The detective’s having no luck locating Pasha Bulychuk, since ski resort management has a confidentiality policy, and even the promise of a hefty bribe has fallen flat.  Deputy Bulychuk is keeping little Pasha under wraps.

“Which hotel is priciest?” I ask, pulling on my bedtime woolen socks.

“Hold on.”   

While I wait, I google Deputy Bulychuk/divorce, and find out that his ex has remarried and is living in Odessa.  Volodney comes back and says, the Hotel Ibex at the Bukovel resort, adjacent to chair- lift number three.  They offer a package deal for two, air fare, three days and nights, with complimentary meals, sauna and facials for 20,000 Hryvia.

Volodney’s tone is neutral, but 20,000 Hryvia is what I make in a month, so I’m fighting the despair that I feel when I’m reminded what a cozy life other people have.  “Give me the phone number,” I say.

I call Hotel Ibex and tell them I’m Lydia Gavrilov, Pasha Bulychuk’s mother, and please put me through.  I sense hesitation on the other end so I add, “According to my online account, the boy is running up exorbitant charges on my Platinum Visa, and right now my cursor is pointing at the ‘don’t authorize’ option.”

“One moment, Mrs. Gavrilov.”

Moments later I hear a slurred voice on the other end, “Yeah?”

“Vanushka,” I say, “it’s Katya.  Good news – I’m pregnant!”

On the other end I sense a struggle to process.  I believe Pasha thinks it’s room service, because he orders sushi and a deluxe pizza.

I hang up and call the front desk back, book two package deals at 20,000 each and charge it to the Kiev Police Department.

****

During the night it snows.  In the morning my cat Masha sits at the window watching, wide eyed, and I’d love to know what she’s thinking, but maybe she’s just hypnotized. The weather boffins have forecast snow, it’s the ‘how much’ part they’ve miscalculated.  At the airport it’s falling heavily, but we lift off on schedule.  This time I’m sitting next to Sanya Zubov, who’s wearing a pinstripe grey suit, blue tie, black shoes with a perfect, unmarred gloss, and my breathing is deep and calm, because I’m concentrating on a solitaire game on my phone. 

“We should rent skis,” Volodney is saying, “in case there’s a downhill pursuit.”

“Snowboards have more control,” answers Sanya.  He leans across me, stretching out a muscular hand to demonstrate edge pressure, and for an instant his face is centimeters from mine. Have I mentioned his eyelashes?  At this point I’m going to keep my thoughts to myself until the plane lands.

There’s a mini bus waiting as we touch down, four others who’ve bought the package deal squeeze in behind us, and we’re all driven over rutted roads of mud churned with fresh snow, where green and blue houses wait behind tall, occluding fences, and here and there bony dogs watch without hope as we pass. 

Soon we’re on a better road, the sort paid for by private enterprise and not government, climbing steeply through spruce and pine. 

The Ibex Hotel in Bukovel is rustic alpine, and by rustic, I mean it was probably built three years ago.  There’s a main building with service facilities, surrounded by private lodges at discreet distances, ringed by trees.  We check in, then are led along a walkway to an A-frame Swiss-type chalet, where we unpack our bags. It’s been agreed that we’ll need to blend in in order to assess the situation.

             I spend some time changing into my ski slope attire, and when I return to the living area both men are gone, but I find Volodney in the main building scrounging leftover breakfast buffet in the dining room.

“Pasha Bulychuk’s already on the slopes,” he says.

“Where’s Mister Zubov?”

Sanya Zubov comes in, lugging a snow board from rentals, wearing a white and blue ski jacket with trendy trapezoid patterns, goggles strapped to his helmet.

“Two bodyguards,” reports Sanya.
 

I believe we’ve assumed Pasha Bulychuk would have security, but it’s suddenly clear that sitting Pasha down under a dangling light bulb will entail strategizing.

“We’ll get to him when he hits the john,” suggests Volodney. 

“He’ll deny everything and his bodyguards will alibi him,” I point out.

“Pasha’s not an easy target,” Zubov agrees.  “We need to question his security people.  If one of them has a police record, we can twist his arm.”

“We wait until dark and follow them all from the dining room,” advises Volodney.  “We’ll separate one from the pack.”

Sanya considers.  “Not bad, but we can do the same on the slopes.” 

              We find all five men in a coffee shop near the chair lifts, where I get a good look at Pasha.  You can tell rich men by their teeth, and Pasha has a megawatt smile. He dabbles in the music business with Papa’s money, and wanders in and out of the fashion world, and if I’ve given the impression he’s just a youngster, I apologize.  He’s in his thirties, small dark eyes, groomed facial stubble, not very tall, but strong and athletic. Girls looking for someone to put in a good word with a designer or music producer find him useful, so he’s rarely without company.  Obviously the ones who read the news are going to steer clear. 

Natalia the tram driver was still alive when her arms were sawed off.

Going up on the chair lift is breathtaking, mountain ranges to the east and snow-frosted spruce on my right, but I soon realize how close-to-vertical the slopes are. To be truthful, I’m better at cross country than downhill, but it’s past time to bring that up.

When we reach the top of the run, Pasha and his security detail are ahead of us, waiting on the sidelines for a turn.  As soon as they all push off, we follow.  I’m last.

Down we go.  I don’t know what Sanya Zubov’s plan is, but fairly soon his stance drops, his snowboard shoots forward into the trailing bodyguard, and both of them disappear into a stand of trees.  When Volodney and I catch up, Sanya’s trying to revive the dude, who’s spread-eagled, non-responsive, possible concussed. The other bodyguard hasn’t turn back, he’s got Pasha to protect, and I’m guessing he hasn’t learned uphill skiing. 

Volodney fishes an ID out of the guy’s jacket, and I check police records on my phone.  The bodyguard’s ex-army, has traffic tickets, but nothing to twist his arm.

              Zubov’s not giving up.  He rubs some snow on the guy’s face, brings him around, and he and Volodney soon have him upright while they pat him on the back and assure him he’ll be fine.  Does he remember what day it is?  Who’s the president of Ukraine?  What about the night Tatty Akkuratney was murdered?

The guy repeats what is obviously a prepared story, Pasha was with an aspiring transsexual actress named Doronina, all afternoon and evening, she’ll be happy to swear to it.

Sanya tries an unexpected tact.  “Your fought the Russians, in Donbass.  You’re an honorable person.  Help us out.”

Maybe the guy is woozy from concussion, maybe the appeal to honor has an effect, maybe he really did fight the Russians, but eventually he admits that Pasha wasn’t with anyone on the night of the murder. He assumes Pasha was in the bubble-fountain penthouse at the time, but Pasha’s given security the slip before, it could have happened that night too.

Volodney and Zubov exchange grim looks.  Pasha Bulychuk lacks an alibi.

              I phone for a rescue, Volodney waits with the bodyguard until they bring up a sled, while Sanya and I ski down the mountain together.  Sort of.  “Skiing down together” is accurate in the most literal sense, and I’m not amending it.

              Pasha and his remaining bodyguard are waiting near the chairlift, possible debating whether to go back for their missing comrade.  Sanya herds them into the coffee shop, assures them their guy is receiving medical attention, and apologizes for the collision.  Then we all order cocoa and dumplings.

             
After dinner Sanya decides to head back to Kiev, so we wait in a frigid train station below the mountain - toilets without doors, no refreshments - until nearly midnight.  No one complains, we’re cops, it’s just another day.  When we get back to Kiev dawn is breaking, the snow has stopped, I’m nauseous from coffee, and I’ve lost money at cards.

PART THREE

It’s up to Commander Shulikov to decide what happens next, but there is no “next”, the Tatty Akkuratney murder investigation trails off, interest evaporates because Pasha Bulychuk did it for sure, and he’s untouchable.   In the weeks that follow I run into Sanya, and then Volodney, and Volodney is pleased to see me, but we quickly run out of conversation.  Sanya is polite, but on his way somewhere else, and that’s fine because we’re essentially of different species. Our children would end up in zoos.

I continue to believe that no girl deserves to be dumped in the trash, so I don’t forget Tatty, even when I’m back on patrol, and one day I run into Philip Deruga again.

****

Street Shoes is a hole in the wall selling popular sneaker brands, plus accessories, and it’s not cheap. I’m looking for a pair of Nikes for my younger brother Jenya, who’s twenty-two and still dresses like a twelve-year-old.   It’s not Jenya’s birthday; but I was bossy on the phone, and I’m feeling guilty.  Anyway, in comes Philip Deruga. 

              Deruga helped popularize Street Shoes on his YouTube channel, and he likely gets discounts if he bothers to ask.   The tiny shop is jam-packed after he enters with six of his friends. Philip struggles to squeeze by me at the Converse rack, but I don’t let him.                                             

                “Tell me about Tatty Akkuratney,” I say.

“Weren’t you in Moscow?”

I’m surprised he noticed, but he probably has me on video.

“Somebody made off with my Dynamo jacket,” he complains.

“One of the gopniks,” I say. 

“You should be looking into that.  My jacket.”

“That’s for the Russian Police,” I tell him.   I can’t believe that’s his concern. Oh wait, I believe it.  “What about Tatty?” I ask.

              He blinks.  “I didn’t strangle her,” he says.  “We broke up weeks before.”

              “Before…?

              “Yeah, before.”