Free Traffyck by Michael Beres Page B

sideburns. His nose was pointy, and his eyes were dark brown. He held a crumpled newspaper in front of his chest. When she glanced at the newspaper, she saw a word on a small headline at the fold of the paper was circled with red ink. The word was “Gypsy.”
    “And your name?” he asked, staring at her as he lowered the paper.
    “Mariya Nemeth. I did not take Viktor’s name when we married.”
    “Yes, Viktor Patolichev.” He turned. “Please follow me.”
    He walked quickly, staying ahead of her, making it obvious they should not walk together. He was thin, about her age. His shoulders were broad, his hair long enough to touch his collar. Viktor’s friend, militia Inspector Listov, had said Janos Nagy was ex-militia; she wondered if knowing this made her think he walked like a militiaman, or if there really was something about the walk. A hesitation at each step as if something unknown lay ahead.
    They sat at the back of a terminal lounge among morning vodka sippers. Although his name was Janos Nagy, she kept thinking Gypsy as they spoke. They ordered coffees. In the darkened lounge, his eyes reflected the light shining in from the busy terminal behind her.
    “Why me?” asked Janos.
    “A friend of my husband recommended you, militia Inspector Listov from Darnytsya. When I told him the militia had not been aggressive, Listov wondered why Viktor would park his BMW inside the storage room at the back of the store if he planned to escape. Viktor loved his BMW and would not have turned it into a pile of rubble.”
    Janos stared at her a moment, then said, “May I call you, Mariya?”
    “Yes.”
    “Everyone calls me Janos when they’re not calling me Gypsy, or other names.” He smiled but quickly became serious. “I should tell you I visited Kiev militia headquarters before coming here. It will not be necessary to go through the entire episode. I know about the insurance investigation. I know your husband’s body was found beside a gasoline can. I know another man in the store also died. I know about the BMW parked inside and the overhead door shut and locked. So, tell me, Mariya, what are these suspicions the militia is ignoring?”
    “It’s more than intuition if that’s what you mean. The presence of gasoline and Viktor’s substantial insurance has pulled a curtain. No one is willing to listen. Viktor and I lived together before we married. When two people live together, they learn things.”
    “Things one says in one’s sleep?” asked Janos.
    When she did not answer, he continued. “I read the reports and spoke with investigating officers. I must focus on dreams and words your husband said in his sleep, if you don’t mind.”
    Janos stared at her, his eyes reminding her of her father’s eyes long ago when she announced she was leaving home. Sad eyes watching a child go into the hard, cold world.
    “I don’t mind,” she said.
    “Good. Please leave nothing out, no matter how personal.”
    And it was personal. When she spoke of Viktor talking in his sleep, she imagined being in bed, Viktor’s chest rising and falling against her shoulder as his breathing quickened and the dream surfaced, causing him to shout in the silence of their bedroom.
    “He said many things,” said Mariya. “Mostly about God’s judgment. God’s hand lowering in judgment … Armageddon, I assume. He spoke of himself in a self-deprecating tone. Once, as I listened, it occurred to me I’d heard this in a film. The devil and the angel speaking in the person’s own voice, but each with a slightly different tone.”
    “Do you recall some exact words?” asked Janos.
    “The night before the fire he said, ‘Before God’s fellowship lowers in final judgment of the children, I pledge.’“
    “Do you know what this fellowship is?”
    “No.”
    “A religious experience from childhood?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “What was he pledging?”
    “Viktor asked the same thing when I told him about his final dream. It was the