Murder in Ukraine by Dan Spanton Page A

nothing to do with my feelings toward him.  Nor does Sanya’s athletic body inside the crisp suit, which I can only imagine.  
    What attracts me to Detective Zubov is the fact that he’s absolutely, at all times, in charge.  
    He ignores me.  “What have you turned up?” he asks Volodney.
                  Volodney tells him that the Deputy has just finished a committee hearing and will arrive shortly, and that son Pasha is skiing in the Carpathians, according to the concierge. Furthermore, there’s word that the dead girl Tatty Akkuratney had a boyfriend, also a video blogger, who only hours ago flew to Moscow, Russia, according to his mother.
                  “By the by, this is Miss Kondrashov, who’s been loaned from patrol.”
                  Zubov brushes past me, and Volodney and I follow him to a sliding glass door, which Detective Zubov draws back to admit mild March air.  We all step onto a balcony and look twenty stories down. 
    I don’t know if Zubov is pondering the case, or admiring the gold domes of St. Sophia Cathedral, but I anticipate his insight. Down below there’s scant snow for the first week in March, and the weather bureau says not much in the Carpathians, either.  In fact, the ski resorts have crocuses popping up, according to the resorts I just contacted, so it seems likely that “hacksaw” Pasha hasn’t gone to the Carpathians to ski, but to hide out.  It also looks suspicious that Tatty Akkuratney’s video blogger boyfriend has chosen today to fly to Moscow, but maybe that’s just me.  I know when to keep my mouth shut.
    “Check out the victim’s YouTube posts,” Zubov tells Volodney.  “See if she mentioned anyone suspicious.  I’ve already interviewed her parents, they’re in the dark.  Tomorrow morning we’re flying to Moscow to interview the boyfriend.” 
    “Me too, sir?”  I ask.  Mister Zubov appears uncertain whether he heard a voice from the TV, or a neighbor behind the wall.  He focuses on Volodney.  “Take a statement from the Deputy when he arrives,” he says. 
    Then he’s gone, past the bubble columns and out the door, and I swoon a little against the balcony railing. 
    “Careful,” says Volodney.  
    ****
    I’m packing for Moscow. I rent the second floor of my brother-in-law’s house, and I leave the door propped open when I’m out, so my cat Masha will have the company, and hopefully, the caregiving of those on the lower level. 
    From downstairs I catch the betrayed wail of my three-year-old nephew, Klem.  Full name Klemente (if you’re wondering) and every time he cries I hear betrayal.  My sister says little boys cry more frequently than little girls, and I wonder what happens to that impulse when they’re older -maybe it goes away, maybe it doesn’t, but if it doesn’t, it explains a lot.             
    “I knew that poor girl!” says my sister minutes later, when I stand beside her at the stove.
    “You didn’t know her, you watched her on Periscope,” I say.  I’ve arrived in time to prevent her eating all the crispy skin from the roast duck.  Her own children sit at the table just four feet away, impatiently waiting sustenance, unaware of their mother’s selfish behavior.
                  My sister sniffles.  “You’re callous.  Otherwise you wouldn’t be with the police.”
                  I don’t have an answer to that, since it may be partly true.
                  “I hope you catch him,” says Anna.  “Not you personally, that would be too dangerous.”  She lifts a knife and slices the wings off the duck.
     
     
    PART II
                 
                  Eight AM, we’re boarding for Moscow and I’m with the men, having booked tickets on a department card provided by Commander Shulikov.  Six months from now someone will demand to know who authorized business class (me), and while they’re