Free The Confession by Olen Steinhauer Page A

pose you could tell what had attracted him to her. What had attracted her to him—besides the comforts of Party lodging—was less apparent.
    Woznica returned with a tray of glasses that tapped together as his overexcited hands shook. We joined him around the coffee table. Vodkas, with fresh limes squeezed into them. Despite all the improvements, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen a lime.
    “So,” I said, after we’d touched glasses to health, “can you tell us about your wife?”
    Woznica took a deep breath that seemed to drain his energy. “Well. This happened three nights ago—”
    “Friday night,” offered Emil.
    “Yes, yes.” He leaned back into the sofa. “I had returned from a special meeting of the Pharmaceutical Section—distribution problems, very troublesome—it was late for me. Eight at night? Yes. Eight, eight-thirty. I came in and called for her. Svetla, I called. That’s my wife. Svetla. There was no answer. Very surprising. But I went into the kitchen, and that was what worried me. The cabinets, yes, they were open— all open. And the pots and dishes and forks and spoons—they were all over the floor!” As he talked, his hands were on his knees, the sofa, his glass, his chin, his ear. “I called her name loudly— Svetla! Svetla! But still no answer! I ran through the apartment, checking everywhere, but no, she was nowhere. And now, three days later, still no Svetla.”
    Emil set down his empty glass. “Her clothes? We were told—”
    “Yes yes,” he answered, nodding and flushing. “I should have said before. Some dresses were missing. Whoever took her is prepared to hold her a long time.”
    I shot Emil a glance; he caught it.
    “What about the neighbors?” Emil asked. “Have you talked to them?”
    “I have, Comrade Inspectors, I have.” He seemed proud of his foresight. “But the downstairs neighbor, Comrade Ioana Lipescu, is so terribly deaf she never heard a thing. She’s very old—her husband, who I knew from the Ministry, died a year ago. We live on the top floor, and these walls keep out noises. I was going to talk to the family on the ground floor, but to be terribly honest, I don’t want word getting out. At least, not until we’ve found her. For a man like me…” He finally ran out of words.
    “Of course,” said Emil.
    “And relatives? Are there any we can speak to?”
    Woznica opened his hands. “Feel free to speak with her father, but he returned to Russia a year ago, after we married.”
    I took out my notepad to make this seem like a bureaucratic question. “You and your wife—how well have you been getting along recently? Any arguments? Disagreements?”
    He took it very well. A sad smile came over him, and he shook his head more slowly than I would have thought him capable. “Comrade Inspectors, my Svetla is an angel. Truly. I don’t say this as a husband; I say it because it is true. She is very agreeable. We are always of a like mind on all issues.” The smile was gradually disappearing. “My Svetla, you have to understand, she has a weak constitution. This has been a hard year for her, the last months—yes, six months—spent in bed. In June I took her to the baths at Trebon, I thought it would help. And for a little while, yes, it seemed to. But then she suffered more, the poor thing. She’s too weak to get up on her own, you understand? I have to help her exercise in her room so her muscles—so they don’t degenerate . In the Health Ministry we know how to take care of people. I know you ask the question because you are good investigators, you have to ask. But my Svetla, were she to decide to do so, is too weak to pack her clothes and leave me.” The smile was returning, though his eyes were wet. “And why should she want to leave me? I give her everything I have. I nurse her. She is my little angel.”

3
     

     
    We took a quick survey of her windowless bedroom—a vast, too-soft bed, half-full wardrobe, wide-mirrored