Back to Part 1 SVS2-03: Into the Woods by Corbeau, Part 2 Jim dialed down his sense of smell as he approached the morgue. He'd gotten good enough at it that the procedure was almost second nature to him now. Still, it was easier when Blair was around; he didn't have to work at it quite so hard then. Unfortunately, Blair wasn't around. His Guide was probably not too disappointed to pass up the chance to attend an autopsy, but Jim missed his presence more than he liked to admit -- especially to himself. "Morning, Jim," Dan Wolf greeted him. "Where's your better half? Decided to forego another taste of the wonderful world of forensic pathology?" "He had a meeting at the U this morning, and some data he needed to analyze for his diss. Some software program he doesn't have on his computer." Jim glanced at the now naked body of the victim laid out on a steel table. Sometimes he wondered if Blair's reluctance to face this facet of police work was really squeamishness, as some of his detractors at the PD assumed. How squeamish could a guy be who ate slugs and had lived for months in the jungle with so-called "primitive" peoples? Jim had begun to believe that what really disturbed his younger partner was not the unpleasant physical reality of violent death, but what he could only describe as the spiritual violation... the cosmic wrongness of one human being doing this to another. Blair's shaman soul must recoil at the awareness that a member of the tribe had been not only deprived of life before his time, but sent to his death with neither ritual nor reverence... treated not with the respect due to what had once been the dwelling of a soul, though now empty -- but like an animal. Or worse -- like garbage dumped at the side of the road. "Jim? Are you with me?" "Sorry, Dan. Waxing a little philosophical. Life, death, and all that." "Yeah. Helluva way to treat somebody. At least he looks a bit better without the bugs." Dan began a detailed examination of the outside of the body, while his assistant photographed it from every conceivable angle and Jim's senses confirmed Dan's observations. Closer up, Jim still saw no sign of a potentially fatal wound, but the head and neck were too damaged by insects and scavengers to show any such evidence -- even to enhanced senses. Dan began probing the ravaged neck with a scalpel, peering closely as he pushed aside shreds of skin and muscle. "Aha! There's one possible cause of death." Jim looked where Dan's instruments revealed the inner structure of the victim's neck. "The hyoid bone's broken. Strangulation, you think?" "That, or a hard blow to the throat. Sadakian seemed to think the large number of maggots in the head and neck areas suggested open wounds were present. Strangulation wouldn't cause that, but a blow could if the weapon broke the skin. Something to look for when I get to the skull." Dan motioned his assistant over. "Let's get his prints before I open him up." Jim watched as the corpse was fingerprinted, then took a look at the results. "You were right, those are a good set of prints." "You want to stick around or take them to Forensics?" "I want to stay at least until you do the skull. If there's any evidence of blows I need a good idea of what could have made them." "Good enough. Ellie, why don't you see these prints get to Forensics ASAP? If our guy is in the AFIS database, we might know who he is pretty soon." The young woman left. Jim continued to watch as, under Dan Wolf's skilled hands, the John Doe on the table gave up his last secrets. "Hey, watch it! You're going to... Blair?" Blair, about to make an automatic apology for the collision on the library steps, looked up from where he had bent down on one knee. He was retrieving the books that had kept going when the rest of him collided with an innocent and less preoccupied pedestrian. "Chris? Wow, is that really you? I thought you were outta here a long time ago." He dumped the pile of books and printouts on the stone balustrade long enough to give his ex-girlfriend a hug. Christine hugged back. "I was, Ph.D. clutched in my hot little hand. Then I found out just what good a doctorate is if you're stuck in Cascade and didn't have the foresight to major in software engineering. I was planning to pore through every book on resume or CV writing this place has, looking for an edge." Blair looked at her quizzically. "Since when are you not willing to relocate?" Christine held up her left hand, where a very respectable diamond glittered from the third finger. "Since this." Hey, that's great! Congratulations." Blair made a mental note to tell Jim about this development as soon as he could. One more ex-girlfriend that his possessive partner could scratch off his worry list. "Who's the lucky guy?" "Paul Yan." "Not the Paul Yan -- the one whose family owns the shipping company?" Christine smiled proudly. "The very same." "Wow, no wonder you're planning to stick around. They've been in Cascade forever. Isn't there even talk of one of them running for Mayor some day?" "Well, you didn't hear it from me... but Paul's oldest brother, Gerald, is very big in city politics... almost ran in the last election. I love Paul, and I love his family, but being the future Mrs. Yan has sure put a crimp in my career plans." "I thought I heard you were teaching at Pacific Tech." "I am, but it's only for this year, as a temporary replacement for somebody on sabbatical. Then it's out the door." She looked down at her feet. "I feel guilty complaining about it. I certainly won't need to work for financial reasons. But it's still hard to give up the idea of teaching; I never really thought of doing anything else. But you know the old saying -- life is what happens when you're making other plans." "I'm thinking of having it tattooed on my chest." "Oh, God, Blair, I'm sorry... I didn't mean..." Blair waved a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it, kiddo. Things worked out OK. Barring mental meltdown or natural disaster, I should be Dr. Sandburg by the end of this year." "That's great!" Her smile was wide and genuine. "You deserve it. I never believed you were a fraud, you know, despite what you said. I was sure there had to be a subtext lurking around there somewhere." "Wow... thanks, Chris." Blair's feet now became objects of contemplation. The silence had almost reached the uncomfortable stage when he continued. "Especially since you dumped me so emphatically. I thought I was pretty high on your shit list for a while." The young woman laughed. "Well, OK, you were... for a while. I was hurt that you thought I could have been the leak, but I got over it when I remembered I was trained in logical reasoning. I was a likely suspect. And let's face it, we were both thinking with our gonads, and didn't really know each other very well back then." "Guilty as charged. You weren't the first girlfriend who got to know me, and liked me better, after she dumped me. Or the last, actually." He looked thoughtful. "Is it really that hard to get an academic job?" "It's a bitch, frankly. Enrollment in most majors has been in decline for years. Unless you're in business or engineering, academic departments have more tenured professors than they really need, given the number of students." Blair nodded. "It's certainly true here. Eli tears his hair out every time he sees the FTES stats for the semester. I guess it's not just Rainier." "All those pig-in-the-python baby boomers have been tenured in for ages. In five or ten years they'll be retiring in droves, and at least some of them will need to be replaced... fat lot of good that does us now." "Chris, whatever you end up doing, you'll be great at it. Maybe Gerald isn't the only Yan with a future in politics. Maybe some day I can brag that Mayor Christine Yan used to be my girlfriend. Briefly." Christine burst out laughing. "I'll have to tell Paul that. Get him prepared to be First Man of Cascade down the road. Would you come to the wedding if I sent you an invitation?" "I'd be honored. Is it going to be a traditional ceremony?" "Oh, you'd better believe it -- followed by a Chinese banquet for three hundred, at least. Traditional with a capital T. It makes me want to do a paper on my own wedding. Is that too postmodern?" "Sounds like a great idea to me. I can hardly wait. I love traditional Chinese weddings." Christine pulled a small notebook and pen out of her shoulder bag. "You're now on the list. What's your address these days?" "Uh... 852 Prospect. Number 307." She looked up. "Ah... same place, still." "Yeah. Same place." Good grief. The woman had 'subtext identified' written all over her face. "Well, um, gotta go. Statistical analysis calls." Christine leaned over and gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. "It was great to see you again. Take care." Blair kissed her back, equally chastely. "Same here." He watched as she continued her interrupted journey up the library steps. "Tell Paul Yan he's a lucky S.O.B," he called out. She looked over her shoulder and waved. "Oh, I do," she called back. "Tell your detective the same." Geez. Blair gathered his pile of books and papers and turned toward Hargrove Hall. Why not just get a two-for-one deal at the tattoo parlor and put 'Property of James J. Ellison' on his forehead? Of course, the upside of the situation was that he was guaranteed a wedding invitation for two. Wonder if it was going to be a formal evening ceremony? AKA, an excuse to get the aforementioned James J. Ellison into a tux. Oh, yeah... the man did clean up nice. Lost in contemplation of Cascade's sexiest cop resplendent in formal dress, he almost dropped the books again when his cell phone rang. He executed a rather complex move to extract the phone without dropping anything. He was successful, but several undergraduates of both sexes were sufficiently distracted to do themselves minor injuries, due to sudden inattention to the position of their feet. "Hello?" "Hi, Chief. It's me." "Jim! I was just thinking about you." "Is that good?" "Oh, yeah. When's the last time you went to a pull-out-the-stops Chinese banquet?" "Too long ago. Why?" "Tell you when I see you. Do you need me for something?" Blair grinned. "Something that can be done in public, that is?" "Smartass. Don't you still have stuff to do at the U?" "A few things, but I'll be finished by lunchtime. Should I bring something to the PD, or meet you somewhere?" "How about the Peking Palace? I have a sudden urge for Chinese food." "Boy, you're suggestible. How about twelve thirty? Anything on the guy in the woods yet?" "No, but I'll probably know more by lunchtime. We got good prints." "Terrific. See you then, love. Bye." "Ditto." Megan flagged Jim down when he and Blair entered the bullpen, full of broccoli beef and mu shu chicken. Jim when or if he'd be able to face eating pork again. "Hey mates, AFIS came through. We have an ID on yesterday's victim. Vasily Morisov, age thirty-eight." Jim's eyes narrowed. "So why was he in the database? He have a sheet?" Megan handed him a printout. "Picked up one time only, for shoplifting. The store eventually declined to prosecute. Seems to be the only time he was ever in trouble." Blair craned his neck around his monumental partner for a look. "Hey, the guy's a Russian immigrant -- fairly recently, too. And his last known address was in Little Moscow... I wonder if Micki knows anything." "Chief, I'm sure Micki doesn't know every Russian immigrant in Cascade. He wasn't even in town that long. This shoplifting charge was in Okanogan and he was living there at the time. That was only nine months ago." "Still, it wouldn't hurt to give her a call, see how she's doing. We haven't seen her in months." "Let's try the more official channels first, all right?" Megan's face said 'they're so cute' but her mouth didn't. Jim scowled. As long as she didn't actually say it, he couldn't ream her out for it. She smiled with such exaggerated sweetness Jim was sure she was reading his mind. "Want me to check out the Okanogan end?" she offered. "I know some people in the Sheriff's Department." "All single, male and with tight butts, is my guess," Blair remarked. Megan smirked at him. "Improving relations between law enforcement in Australia and the USA is one of the reasons I'm here, after all. Hands across the sea and all that." Jim turned to Blair. "Wonder if her CO knows just where those hands are landing?" he wondered. "Yeah, New South Wales should have been more specific about exactly what kind of relations they wanted to foster." "Very funny, boys. You want my help or not? I can get more out of the blokes in Okanogan than you can, I'll wager." A corner of Jim's mouth twitched up a fraction. "That's one bet I'm too smart to take, Connor. We'll take you up on it. That'll free us up for a visit to Morisov's last address. See if his neighbors know anything. Search his apartment. Come on, Chief." "Thanks, Megan!" Blair called out as they left. He added a lascivious Monty Python wink for good measure. Two hours later, Blair was more subdued. Poking through the remains of a person's life still felt like a violation to him, even when the person in question was beyond caring. In this case, there were damn few remains, anyway. The landlady, Mrs. Strejska, had been cooperative, giving them permission to search without a warrant, and eager to tell what she knew. He'd been a bit surprised at that, given the level of cooperation they were used to getting in this part of town. A real babushka, she'd seemed genuinely upset at the news of Morisov's death, and eager to help anyone trying to find his killer. Blair had volunteered to start looking through the apartment while Jim interviewed the woman. Unfortunately, Morisov had given his notice and supposedly left the previous weekend for a new job in California. The apartment was clean as a whistle -- he must have been a good tenant -- and all that remained were a few boxes that a friend had agreed pick up later in the week and ship out to him when he had a new place to live. There wasn't much left... bulkier clothes, mostly, some household items... all looking like they'd been packed in a hurry. None of those had yielded much of interest, unless knowing the victim's taste in scarves and sweaters could be considered interesting. Blair was just opening the last box when Jim returned. "Anything useful, Chief?" "Well, he liked to grind his own spices and had a thing for Star Wars. He actually saved those plastic cups they gave out in burger joints." "He liked to smoke Turkish cigarettes, too. A lot. I can still smell them, despite the Clorox and Murphy's Oil Soap." "Ah, this is better!" Blair dove into the last box. Jim sank to the floor beside him. "What have you got?" "Books, for one thing. You can tell a lot about a man from the books he reads." Jim picked one out of the box and flipped it open. "Maybe you can. I don't read Russian." "Well, I'm not exactly fluent, but I can at least tell what they're about. Mostly international business, looks like." He rooted around some more. "Yeah, here's a few in English, too. Same general topic." "We can get Pollock down in Burglary to take a look. His mother's Russian, and he's fluent in it. In case there's anything we've missed." Jim was about to put the book back into the box when he stopped. He looked closely at the side of the closed book, then turned it upside down and fanned out the pages. A few pieces of paper slipped out. "Hey, how did you know that was there?" "Pages weren't lying quite right." He quickly scanned the sheets. "Well, well -- this is interesting. The paperwork for a new car." "Why so interesting? Mrs. Strejska said he bought a new car to drive to California, although she didn't know what kind. I figured it was a used Hyundai or something else cheap." "How about a brand new Mercedes? Forty-five thousand bucks -- and he paid for it up front." "Shit. How could he afford a car like that? Either he had one helluva good job offer or..." "Or he wasn't the saint Mrs. Strejska thinks he is." "Why would he pack it in here instead of taking it with him? Unless it got mixed in with this stuff by mistake... he wasn't being too careful when he packed this stuff. Must have been in a hurry to get out of here." "And where's the car? Damn, if the perps took it they could be halfway across the country by now." "You think some operation like Petrie's could have reared its ugly head again?" "Maybe... but I don't think so. They only went for unusual, top-of-the-line stuff. Forty-five thou may sound like a lot to working stiffs like you and me --" "But it's a long way from Lamborghini territory. I get it." Blair drummed his fingers on the box, but the vibration didn't shake loose any new ideas. He sighed. "You get anything from Mrs. Strejska?" "Well, she told me at great length and with a lot of wailing how much the vic reminded her of her grandson. Wish I'd kept you around. You're better than me at dealing with weepy old ladies." "Poor baby, having to face all that unbridled emotion. It could explain why she's so willing to help, though." "Yeah. After the waterworks, she got mad. She really liked Morisov. He talked to her... listened, more likely... helped with some minor repairs around the place, and loved her piroshkis. No sign of lying or evasion. She really wants us to nail the perp." Blair had reached the bottom of the last box, and found nothing else of interest. "She give you any leads we can follow up on?" "The fact that she bid Morisov a teary farewell Saturday morning, and that was the last time she saw him. He was supposed to leave for California on Sunday, but she spent the weekend visiting a sister in Seattle. She did gave me the name an address of the friend -- a former roommate -- who was supposed to pick up these boxes." "What about the neighbors? Maybe somebody heard something." "Maybe, but our prospects aren't good. The apartment across the hall is vacant. The woman in 2A is hard of hearing, and spends the weekends with her son and daughter-in-law in Tacoma. The couple in 2C are mom-and-pop truckers. They left Monday morning on a run and won't be back for a couple of days at least." "So we go find the ex-roommate?" Jim shook his head. "Probably still at work, and Strejska doesn't know where that is." "Well, we could try the car dealership. I doubt he paid with a suitcase of bills, so they probably have a cashier's check or something. If we can find out where the guy banked we could get access to his records. They might tell us something." Jim looked at Blair for a moment, then leaned over and kissed him. "Did anyone ever tell you you're a smart little sucker?" Still savoring the unexpected kiss, Blair was a bit slow to respond. "Uh... so you love me for my mind?" "For your mind, and that very nice package you carry it around in." He rose to his feet and held his hand out to Blair. "But nookie while on duty is discouraged, so we'd better get moving. Being alone with you in an empty apartment is way too distracting." "Jim, I know it's your turn to make dinner, but you're supposed to tenderize that cutlet, not beat it into submission." Jim looked up, scowling, from the unfortunate piece of turkey lying flat -- very flat -- under his mallet. "You want turkey piccata or not, Sandburg? I can always make a Wonderburger run. Extra cheese. Supersize the fries." Blair slipped up behind him, reaching around to coax the mallet from his fingers like a weapon from a surrendering perp. "I know you're still pissed off at that guy from the Mercedes dealership, but don't take it out on the food." "Supercilious asshole. Where did he get off acting like he was royalty and you were a serf? The guy's nothing but a goddamed car salesman, despite his fancy suit." "Snooty is his stock in trade, Jim. How else can he convince people to buy an expensive car that has a worse reliability record than a Toyota? Actually it was pretty funny when we first came in." "Funny? The look he gave you..." "That was the funny part. He sees this guy in long hair and a flannel shirt, wearing nothing that's been in spitting distance of a designer label. He doesn't know whether to sneer because I'm beneath notice, or kowtow because you never know -- I might just be a billionaire geek. Software money. Dot-com mogul." Blair chuckled with obscene glee. "Cascade is such a challenge for snobs." "He's still an asshole." "Maybe, but he sure laid it on thick with you. Must be that 'I had horses and a house with columns' thing you do. Lucky you weren't wearing your white socks." "How would you like a turkey cutlet down your pants? Uncooked." "Now that would certainly be 'piccata,' but it's low on the list of what I want down my pants." Blair slipped his arms around Jim's waist and began rubbing his head against the broad back. His partner's anger was dissipating after a short stop in the Sandburg Zone... just as intended. "We got we wanted, didn't we? The guy's bank, and even a picture of the Mercedes -- same model, same color. That let us put out an APB on the car." "Yeah. Took him long enough. I was about ready to run the schmuck in for obstructing." Jim held a hand briefly over the skillet and added olive oil to it. "The people at the bank were a lot more helpful," he conceded. "Yeah. Too bad it was too late to track down that guy in California who paid the forty-five K into Morisov's account. I wonder if his company is really legit? Even if we can't contact him until tomorrow, I can do a little net surfing tonight on that company name. Maybe it's got a web site. Or I can check some of the online databases from the business library at Rainier. Man, I'm gonna really hate losing those passwords." "What do you mean, lose them?" Jim tasted the rice pilaf. Blair wondered if Jim really needed to do that. He could probably smell or see that it was done. It better be, because the sound of that sizzling turkey, and the scent of lemon, was making Blair's mouth water. "Only students and employees of Rainier have access to those things. They cost a fortune. The library signs contracts that promise nobody unauthorized gets to use them or the head librarian has to give the vendor her first-born child, or something." Jim was dressed the spinach salad, making no reply, and Blair carried it to the already-set table. "What if you get a teaching job? Won't you have access then?" "Big if, Jim. Only big universities, or well-endowed ones, can afford so many databases. Tenure-track teaching jobs are hard to come by, unless you're willing to move to East Podunk State, or something." His back to the kitchen, Blair missed the involuntary jerk of his partner's arm as he transferred the turkey piccata to a platter. Lemon sauce splattered the counter, and Jim grabbed a sponge, his face a mask. Blair came back for the platter. "Come on, man, housekeeping can wait. I'm starving." Jim threw the sponge into the sink so hard it almost bounced back onto the counter, but Blair was already halfway to the table again. Jim slipped the pilaf from pan to bowl with careful, controlled movements. Jim was feeling more mellow now that his stomach was full. Between the meal and whatever magic Blair had worked, the frustrations of the day had dissipated, and his worries had been stuffed down and locked up. He was looking forward to a quiet evening at home, maybe a good book, and maybe later -- "Hey, you what I'm dying for right now?" Blair leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction and a dreamy look on his face. Hmm... maybe sooner. "What?" "Dessert." Blair licked his lips. Oh, yeah. Jim tried for a seductive purr. "Anything in particular you have in mind?" Blair leaned back, stretching sensuously. "Yeah... I'm just dying for..." Whatever you want, babe it's yours. Jim was mesmerized. The dishes could wait. The book could wait. The -- "A poppy seed hamantash." Jim stared, mouth hanging open, at the man across the dinner table. "Wha -- what?" Blair jumped up. "C'mon, man, it's still early, it's not raining. We can get to Anya's in fifteen minutes." "Why Anya's? What's wrong with Shipman's Deli? You keep saying they have the best food in Cascade." "Yeah, well... except for the poppy seed hamantash. Their apricot ones are good, but Anya makes a poppy seed filling that..." "I like the apricot ones. That poppy seed filling feels like I'm eating gravel." Blair bounced, and began pacing, waving his hands around. "I keep telling you, dial down touch, keep taste jacked up. Besides, there's nothing wrong with Anya's apricot --" Jim held up a hand. "Sandburg, tell me your choice of eating establishments has nothing to do with the fact that Anya's is around the corner from The Rumor." "Aw, come on, Jim." The Sandburg eyes and mouth, all earnest entreaty, were now focused on him like a laser. Jim wondered if Sadakian's bugs felt like this, pinned to their little cards. The fact that they were dead at the time was irrelevant. Mere death would be insufficient protection against the power of The Sandburg Look. Jim hadn't been in the Army for all those years without learning when to retreat... although in this case, surrender was closer to the truth. "Only if you do the dishes first." Well, Anya's apricot hamantaschen were damn good. Jim could still taste the fruity sweetness, mixed with the smokier flavor of the Russian tea. They rounded the corner. Focusing on the offices of The Rumor, almost a block ahead, he could detect no sign of life. A faint light spilled from the window, and there was an irritating buzz from the dying ballast of a fluorescent fixture. They reached the window and peered into the spaces between the flyers that advertised community events or railed against some injustice. At least that's what they looked like from the pictures. No doubt Blair could actually read them. "Nobody home, Chief. Just a night light on." Blair nodded. "Sometimes she's here late, but not tonight, I guess." He leaned against Jim. "Her apartment's just down the block." Jim sighed. "And here I thought you bought those extra hamantaschen for me." They continued down the block. "I'm hoping she won't want all of them. Girlish figure and all that." "She can have the prune ones." They stopped in front of one of the characterless apartment buildings that shared the neighborhood with small shops and offices. "Wonder why she doesn't live above the paper? It would save money, and I know she operates that thing on a shoestring." "Jim, she comes from a place where putting out an independent newspaper was once an invitation to have your premises blown up. Would you want to be sitting over your press when it went the way of my old apartment?" Goosebumps suddenly rose all over the Sentinel's skin, as if all the warmth had suddenly been sucked out of the air. Blair could have easily been killed in that explosion... one of so many roads not taken, so many points where his life balanced delicately between one future and another. So far, he'd been lucky... so lucky... "Jim? Are you with me?" "Yeah, Sandburg." He propelled Blair ahead of him up the narrow stairs. "Let's go." As Blair knocked on Micki's door, Jim nodded. She was at home. After what they'd been through during the Mayakovsky and Gordievsky cases, and last spring at the Lodge, her scent was now one of those he could recognize instantly. Sharing danger with someone seemed to make it easier for him to imprint their sense memory in whatever corner of his Sentinel brain such things got stored. "Who is it?" Micki's voice was muffled by the heavy wooden door. Jim wondered if the door was original, or Micki had replaced it with something more secure. It seemed too sturdy for the overall quality of construction in the building. Blair waved cheerfully at the peephole, holding up the pink box from Anya's. "Hi, Micki. It's me and Jim. Can you stand some company? We were in the neighborhood." Jim snorted. Blair ignored him. Micki opened the door. "Jim -- Blair. How very nice to see you. It's been too long. Please, come in." Chastened, Jim followed Blair into the small apartment and sank into the aged sofa. It had indeed been too long since they'd seen Micki. It must be hard for her now, since her sister Katria was spending so much time with her boyfriend. This one -- Piotor -- was more respectable than poor Sergei. And he must really love her, since he was still around after what had happened last spring to his precious van. And most of all... "How's Katrina?" Blair asked, sitting down beside Jim. "Any chance she'll get back here soon?" Micki was in the kitchen, turning on the burner under the teakettle and putting the pastries onto a plate. The apartment was small enough that she could continue their conversation without raising her voice. "We hoped that she would come next month, but her trip was cancelled. The Russian economy is so bad, the Moscow Metro Militia does not want to spend money on foreign travel, no matter how well Katrina does when she is in this country." Blair jumped up as Micki came back into the living room, sliding an arm around her shoulders as she deposited the plate of pastries on the table. "That's too bad. You must miss her." Micki lowered herself into a chair. The fleeting look of desolation that passed over her sweet face was quickly replaced with a tremulous smile. "It is hard. Harder than I thought it would be." "Has she ever thought about emigrating?" Jim asked. "I know she was dead set against leaving Russia when we first met her, but that was before... well, you know." "Before she fell in love with an expatriate newspaper publisher who vows she will never return to Russia." Micki sighed deeply, leaning into the back of her chair. "Katrina has a strong sense of duty, one that has been part of her much longer than she has known me. It is a hard thing, to be torn between love and duty." Jim stared at his clasped hands, hanging between his knees. He could feel Blair lean against him, feel the subtle shifts in his lover's body as he answered Micki. "From what my friend Jack tells me, Russia isn't a good place to be right now for anyone with a sense of duty. There are more criminals than police in Moscow, according to him, and most of the police are corrupt." "That is true," she replied sadly. "I have read about what USA was like years ago, when your gangsters like Al Capone were powerful. I think it must be like that now in Russia. Before I came here, everyone told me America was a terrible, violent place. Now people are murdered in Russia almost twice as often as they are in this country. You can hire a -- hit man, is that right? -- for only two hundred American dollars. I am so afraid for Katrina sometimes." "Yeah." Blair looked sideways at Jim. "Been there. I'll bet the murder rate in Cascade is a lot closer to Russia's than to the U.S. average." The teakettle shrilled its summons, and Micki got up, waving away offers of help from the two men. They sat quietly while she poured water into a teapot and collected Russian style tea glasses on a tray. Jim reached for Blair's hand, twining their fingers together. The younger man's initial look of surprise was quickly replaced with understanding. Jim didn't really understand the action himself; who knows what Blair thought it meant. He decided he didn't really want to think about it right now. "Extortion is a way of life," Micki continued as she brought the tray into the living room. "Hardly anyone can have a business there without paying bribes to someone, or what you call 'protection' money. If you do not pay the right people, you cannot succeed." "Knowing the right people... Micki, does the name Vasily Morisov mean anything to you? He's a recent immigrant, just in the past year, although he only moved to Cascade about six months ago." Micki looked at Jim, a furrow creasing her forehead. "Morisov... Vasily Morisov... I think I remember someone who came to the newspaper office, asking if I knew of any apartments for rent near here. I told him Mrs. Strejska might have a place, and she did. He came back later to thank me, and seemed to be a nice man, well spoken -- at least in Russian. In his late thirties. I saw him in the neighborhood now and again, and we would talk a little. Is that the man you mean?" Jim nodded. "Sounds like him, all right." "Is he in trouble?" Micki asked. "He's pretty much beyond trouble now. We found his body yesterday, in the woods out in Ravenhill. Speaking of Cascade's murder rate... it looks like he's the latest addition to this year's total." Micki seemed to be searching in the depths of her tea glass for some meaning. It didn't look like she was finding any. "That is very sad. I did not know him well, but I think he was a good person. Always smiling and helpful. Mrs. Strejska liked him very much. She brought piroshkis to The Rumor one day to thank me for sending him to her. It made me very popular at the paper. Why would anyone murder such a man, I wonder?" "Good question. He was offered a new job in California by a company called Trans-Pacific Enterprises, and paid a substantial sum in advance. We haven't been able to contact anyone in the company yet, but it seems a helluva lot to pay somebody for anything legitimate. Especially for a guy whose work record since he emigrated was farm laborer, then welder." "Ah, but Vasily knew much about business in Russia. He told me a cousin supported him when he emigrated, a cousin who worked on a farm in Okanogan. The only reason Vasily did manual work at first was his English. It was not very good. He was very short of money then. He even told me he stole from a store once, and he was much ashamed of this. He worked very hard, and his English got much better." "So," Blair interjected, "it's possible he knew enough of the right people to make him worth good money to a legitimate business." "I think so," Micki agreed. "Although 'legitimate' means something different in Russia than it does here. Knowing whom to bribe, and to pay off, could be worth much. What you call a necessary evil." "Always considered that an oxymoron, myself." Jim bit savagely into an apricot hamantash, scattering crumbs all over his shirt. Seeing Micki's blank look, Blair explained what an oxymoron was, then encouraged her to talk about Katrina and Piotor. Jim shut up and tried to pay attention. He didn't want Micki to think they only came to see her when they wanted information, although that was uncomfortably close to the truth. The poor kid. He didn't know if she loved Katrina as much as he loved Blair -- not that anyone else could possibly love another human being as much as that -- but he couldn't imagine how it felt to be separated from the person you loved for months at a time. No that was a lie... he could, and he hated the idea. As for Inspector Major Katrina Vaslova: sometimes he thought he understood her all too well. She'd pissed him off mightily during the Gordievsky case. Now, after a couple more years of Blair Sandburg's influence he was marginally more self-aware. Meeting her again last spring, and working with her again as a fellow cop, made him realize that one of the big reasons they got each other's backs up was that they were a lot alike. Blair had confirmed this with an unasked-for comparative analysis on their last ride to Clayton Falls. First, the Special Ops background they shared -- though his old CO would have exploded at the thought of any part of the U. S. Army being equated with the KGB. Then there was the unwillingness to admit any weakness, and the deep loyalty not easily won but fierce when earned. Much as he had railed at Katrina's high-handed procedures, he had to admit that he hadn't always gone by the book himself. Blair had been too diplomatic to bring up the Juno surveillance, and thank God he didn't even know about some of the tricks that 'Slick' had pulled during his tenure in Vice. At least Jim hoped he didn't. Jim almost enjoyed the rest of the evening. Katria Kamerev seemed to be doing great, with no recurrence of her cancer. Piotor seemed to be good for her too. Jim was glad for her, the kid deserved a break... but he hated to think what would happen to Micki if Katria got married. She'd be even more alone. He vowed to himself that they'd make an effort to see Micki more often. After an hour or so, conversation dwindled and they began to make their farewells. To Jim's disappointment, Micki kept the rest of the hamantaschen to share with the staff of The Rumor. Blair and Micki did one of those double-sided kiss and hug things, Russian style. Jim settled for a good old American peck on one cheek. "Bye, Micki. Thanks for the info on Morisov." "I will ask around, and call you when I know more. I hope you find whoever killed him. He was a kind man, trying to make a better life for himself." Blair took Micki's hand. "We'll do our best, you know that. And call me if you need to talk. Things will work out with Katrina, somehow." "I hope so," Micki replied, but her tone was anything but hopeful. "You know, I am taking course at night school in English literature, to help my English writing. I learned the difference between comedy and tragedy. Do you know this?" "Well, it's been awhile since my last Lit class, but I remember the short version. A tragedy ends in a death, a comedy ends in a marriage." "That is what I learned. And I think to myself, 'Russian comedy'... and it sounds like... an oxymoron."