What did he care? He might even pick up the nasty habit again once he retired. What did he have to lose, after all? Or maybe the better question was, What really did he have to live for once they retired him?
He flipped through the pages of his notes and checked off items on his to-do list until he flipped another page and came to nothing but neat, blue lines. He’d run out of items to check. He envisioned a doctor standing over a patient holding shock paddles and staring at that electronic device—whatever they called it—seeing nothing but thin blue lines.
Call it. This patient is dead.
He blew out a breath while tapping his fingers on the table. Then, resigned, he reached and turned off his computer screen, which they said saved energy and increased the screen life. Whoever took over Arkhip’s desk and terminal wouldn’t really give a rat’s ass, but Arkhip did it anyway because, well . . . because it was the right thing to do. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair while giving himself a pep talk. He’d had nights like this over the years, but he’d always gone home to Lada, and she’d always found a way to cheer him. She’d tell him something would break in his case; some witness would be unable to bear the weight of a guilty conscience and would give Arkhip the information he needed to move his case forward. Just watch, she’d say. It’ll happen.
It always did.
He smiled. Even in death that woman could make him smile.
The telephone on his desk rang.
Arkhip picked up the receiver. “Mishkin,” he said.
“Have you stopped reading your e-mails now as well? Why are you so opposed to technology, Mishkin?”
“Who is this?”
“Come down to the technology department. I have something I think will interest you.”
Stepanov hung up. Arkhip stared at the receiver, then at the picture of Lada on his desk. “Nah,” he said. “It’s probably nothing.”
A man who looks at a glass as half empty will always be half full, Lada said.
Arkhip stepped inside the Technology Center, about to ring the counter bell when Stepanov came out of his office. “Follow me.” He looked very much like he had secrets to hide.
“Where?” Arkhip asked.
“Don’t be obstinate. Just do as I say, Mishkin.”
Arkhip followed Stepanov into one of the computer rooms, whereupon Stepanov locked the door and lowered the blinds. He typed at one of the computer terminals.
“What are you doing, Stepanov?”
“Preserving my retirement, which, unlike you, I am very much looking forward to, and financially planning to afford.” Stepanov hacked at the keys, then sat back. “There.”
“There what?”
“Don’t be thick, Mishkin. Look at the screen. What do you see?”
“I see a man and a woman.”
Stepanov closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly frustrated. “You are as thick as butter, Mishkin. How you have solved every one of your cases is beyond me. Who were you searching for yesterday when you came into my office?”
“I was searching for—”
Stepanov raised a hand. “Don’t say his name.” He pushed his chair back from the desk. “I know nothing. You know how to move the video forward and backward and how to zoom in and out, I presume?”
“Yes, of course. But who is the woman?”
“The file, Mishkin. The file.” Stepanov motioned to the file on the desk. He sighed and moved toward the door, gripping the door handle.
“Stepanov.”
Stepanov did not turn to face him. “Do not thank me, Mishkin. This was no act of heroism or duty. It was an act of self-preservation. I am not worried about you turning me in, but if word somehow got back to the Velikayas that I had somehow discussed . . .” He sighed. “I would not have to worry at all about my retirement. I am hoping this will be sufficient.”
With that, Stepanov stepped out, shutting the door behind him.
Arkhip didn’t know what to think. Could it have been his Lada who found a way to get Stepanov to redirect his moral compass and do the right thing? Or was it just as Stepanov had said—conscience be damned, this had been another selfish act. Arkhip wouldn’t know, but it felt better believing his Lada was somehow involved.
Don’t question the motivation for the act, Arkhip, just accept the act as one driven by motivation.
Yes, Lada.
He opened the manila file folder on the desk and found an official-looking photo of Charles Jenkins, along with his vitals and the various crimes he had supposedly committed inside Russia justifying the Kremlin seeking a red notice from the National Crime Agency, and making his apprehension of the highest priority. It was all very interesting, but perhaps not as interesting as the fact that Adrian Zima said his friend who had provided the information on Charles Jenkins’s return to Russia was now missing.