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Executive Times |
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2007 Book Reviews |
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Stalin’s
Ghost by Martin Cruz Smith |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Digging Martin Cruz
Smith has reprised Senior Investigator Arkady Renko for the sixth time in his new novel, Stalin’s
Ghost. Renko stumbles on a murder for hire
scheme that appears connected to fellow police officers while investigating
reports that Stalin had been sighted in subway stations in A heavyset
man in underclothes sat at the kitchen table, his head resting on his
forearm, a cleaver standing in the back of his neck. One forensic technician
videotaped the scene while another peeled the dead man’s hand from a water
glass. Vodka was still in it, Isakov told Arkady. A tech poured half the dead man’s glass into a
vial to test later for rat poison, which would show premeditation. Crusted
dishes, pickle bottles and glittering empties of vodka were piled in a corner
to make room on the drain board for open packages of sugar and yeast, and in
the sink for a pressure cooker, rubber hoses and plastic tubing. Alcohol
formed at the end of a tube, hung and dripped into a jar. Otherwise, the
kitchen was decorated with a mounted wolf head and bushy tail, a tapestry
with a hunting motif and a photograph of the dead man and a woman as two
people younger and happier. The refrigerator hummed, speckled with blood.
Snow fidgeted with a loose windowpane. For the moment no one smoked, despite
the flatulent stink of death. According to a cuckoo clock it was 4:55. Arkady waited at the door with Nikolai Isakov and Marat Urman. Arkady had imagined Isakov so
many times that the real man was smaller than expected. He wasn’t
particularly handsome, but his blue eyes suggested coolness under fire and
his forehead bore interesting scars. His leather jacket was scuffed from wear
and his voice was almost whispery. Arkady’s father
had always said that the ability to command was innate; men would either
follow you or not. Whatever the quality was, Isakov
had it. His partner Urman was a Tatar built round
and hard, with the broad smile of a successful pillager. A raspberry red
leather jacket and a gold tooth revealed a taste for flash. “It seems to be a case of cabin fever,” Isakov said. “The wife says they hadn’t left the house
since it started snowing.” “Started like a honeymoon.” Urman
grinned. Isakov said, “It appears that they could
drink vodka faster than they could make it.” “At the end they were fighting over the last drop of
alcohol in the house. Both so drunk they can barely stand. He starts hitting
her. “Apparently one thing led to another.” “She slices him between the sixth and seventh vertebrae
and right through the spinal cord. Instantaneous!” The cleaver had been dusted with gray powder and the
ghostly print of a palm and fingers was wrapped around the handle. “Does he have a name?” Arkady
asked. “Kuznetsov,” said Isakov. Selecting a professional tone, he commiserated
with Arkady. “So you got stuck with Stalin’s
ghost.” I’m afraid so. “Chasing a phantom
through the Metro? Urman and I prefer ordinary
cases with real bodies.” “Well, I
envy you.” Which hardly told the whole story, but Arkady
thought he was controlling his bitterness fairly well. He stole a glance at
the clock: 4:56. His
watch said 5:05. “I
had a question about the phantom, as you put it. I was wondering, did either
of you search the subway platform?” “No.” “Open any maintenance gates
or doors?” “No.” “Why did you let the
platform conductor leave the station?” It came out more brusquely than Arkady had intended. “That’s more than one
question. Because the conductor didn’t see anything.” Isakov
was patient. “People who weren’t crazy, we let go.” “What else, besides seeing
Stalin, did they say or do that was crazy?” Urman said, “Seeing Stalin, that’s crazy
enough.” “Did you get the number of
the car?” “Number?” “Every car in the Metro has
a four-digit number. I’d like to see that car. Did you get the name of the
driver of the train?” Isakov was categorical. “We were ordered to
ride the last car, whatever its number was, and observe. We were not told
what to watch for or at which station or to get the driver’s name. When we
pulled into the Chistye Prudy
stop we saw nothing and heard nothing unusual until people started to shout.
I don’t know who shouted first. As instructed, we separated the positive
witnesses from the rest of the passengers and held them until we were called
out on this case.” The forensic team announced
that they were finished with the kitchen and moving to the bathroom, where
shiny surfaces beckoned. Arkady waited until the techs had passed
before saying, “Your report was a little sketchy.” “The prosecutor didn’t want
an official report,” Isakov said. Urman was puzzled. “Why all the fucking
questions? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?” Don’t complicate things, Arkady told himself. This wasn’t his case. Get out of the
apartment. A whimper sounded from another room. “Who is that?” “It’s the wife.” “She’s here?” “In the bedroom. Take a look, but watch where you step.” Arkady went down a hail littered with
newspapers, pizza boxes and KFC tubs to a bedroom where the squalor was deep
enough it seemed to float. A redheaded woman in a housedress was handcuffed
to the bed. She rose out of an alcoholic stupor, legs and arms spread, hands
in plastic bags. An array of blood spots covered the front of her dress. Arkady pushed up her sleeves. Her flesh was slack but by
a comparison of forearms she was right-handed. “How do you feel?” “They took the dragon.” “They took what?” “It’s our dragon.” “You have a dragon?” The mental effort was too much and she sank back into
incoherence. He returned to the kitchen. “Someone took her dragon.” “We heard it was elephants,” Urman
said. “Why is she still here?” Isakov said, “Waiting for an ambulance. She
already confessed. We hoped she could reenact the crime for the video
camera.” “She should be seen by a doctor and in a cell. Save the
housedress. How long have you two been detectives in “A year.” Urman had lost his
good humor. “You moved over to detective level direct from the Black
Berets? From Hostage Rescue to Criminal Investigation?” “Maybe they bent the rules for Captain Isakov,”
Urman said. “Why the fuss? We have a murder and a
confession. It’s two plus two, right?” “With one swing. She must have had a steady hand,” Arkady said. “Just lucky, I guess.” “Do you mind?” Arkady stepped
behind the dead man for a different perspective. One arm still stretched out
for the glass. Without touching, Arkady studied
the wrist for bruising from, say, being clamped down by a stronger man while
a blow was struck. Urman said, “I’ve heard about you, Renko. People say you like to stick your dick in. We
didn’t have time for people like you in the Black Berets. Second guessers.
What are you looking for now?” “Resistance.” “To what? Do you see any bruises?” “Did you try a UV scan?” “What is this shit?” “Marat.” Isakov shook his head.
“Marat, the investigator is only asking questions born of experience. There’s
no reason to be taking it personally. He’s not.” He asked as if making sure,
“You’re not taking this personally are you, Renko?” “No.” Isakov didn’t smile, but he did seem amused.
“Now, Renko, you’ll have to excuse us if we work
our own case our own way. Is there anything else you want to know?” “Why were you so certain the glass held vodka? Did you
just assume it?” There was still some in the glass. Urman
dipped his first and middle fingers and licked them. He dipped the fingers a
second time and offered them to Arkady. “You can
suck them if you want.” Arkady ignored Urman
and asked Isakov, “So you’re satisfied what you
have here is an ordinary domestic homicide due to vodka, snow and cabin
fever?” “And love,” Isakov said. “The wife says she loved him. Most dangerous
words in the world.” “So you think love leads to
murder,” Arkady said. “Let’s hope not.” Renko is a survivor, mostly of the many
changes in Steve Hopkins,
July 25, 2007 |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the August 2007
issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Stalin's
Ghost.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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