Free Black Knight in Red Square by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

tight and certainly Western. But it was her face and hair…Yes, she looked like the French actress Brigitte Bardot, but Bardot must be older than this woman. Perhaps this was a younger sister.
    â€œYes?” the woman said in Russian.
    Tkach didn’t know that many young women in France capitalized on their resemblance to the famous star and adopted the Bardot look.
    â€œYou are Monique Freneau?” he said in French.
    She smiled. Tkach wasn’t sure whether she was pleased that he was speaking to her in her native language or amused because he was doing it so poorly. Either way, her smile made him uncomfortable. In fact, Monique Freneau made him quite uncomfortable as she gestured for him to enter the room, but gave him little space to get through the doorway without brushing against her.
    He glanced around the room. It was far bigger than the apartment he and Maya shared with his mother.
    â€œI am from the police,” he said immediately.
    â€œI’m surprised,” she said, sitting in one of the two chairs in the room and crossing her legs. “I thought a requirement of nonuniformed Russian policemen was that they be over fifty, solid, sober, and shaped either like a lamppost or like an American mailbox.”
    Her description fit Rostnikov quite well, Tkach thought. He also was aware that the woman, who might be anywhere from twenty-five to forty, was looking at him with amusement and employing what must have been her formidable sexuality.
    â€œI have, I am sorry to say, another appointment,” Sasha lied. “So, I will have to ask you some questions rather quickly. You probably have much to do, too.”
    â€œNo, not really,” she said, putting a finger to her chin.
    â€œYou are a maker of films?” he asked, taking out his notebook.
    â€œI am a producer of films,” she said. “There is quite a difference. Actually, I am the assistant to a producer, and I’m representing him at the festival.”
    â€œI would have thought you were an actress,” he said, and immediately regretted it.
    â€œI was,” she said. “But I found it more…rewarding to be the assistant to Pierre Maxitte. You’ve heard of him?”
    â€œI’m afraid not,” Tkach said seriously.
    â€œYou have a name,” she added disarmingly.
    â€œInspector Tkach,” he said. “On Monday—”
    â€œA first name?” she cut in.
    â€œSasha,” he said.
    â€œThat is a nice name,” she mused. “Fun to say. Sasha. Sasha.”
    â€œWarren Harding Aubrey,” Sasha threw in. It stopped her, but didn’t seem to disturb or upset her.
    â€œThe writer?” she asked.
    â€œI imagine there would be few with such a name,” he said seriously, “though I must admit I know little about American names.”
    â€œAubrey interviewed me a few days ago,” she said.
    â€œMonday,” Sasha said. “What did you talk about?”
    â€œWhy?” she asked. “What has he done?”
    â€œHe has gotten himself killed,” explained Tkach. “It may well be an accident, but we are trying to trace his movements up to the time of his death yesterday morning.”
    â€œDead,” she said, looking at Tkach more seriously.
    â€œQuite dead,” he said. “Why did he interview you?”
    â€œAbout Pierre,” she said. “The movie we’re showing at the festival, The Devil in the Wind. I had the impression that it was not a serious interview, that he was looking for gossip, perhaps about Pierre. Who knows? He even hinted that he might look favorably on our film if I was friendly to him. You understand?”
    â€œYes,” said Tkach, writing down far more than he needed in order to keep from looking at her. Now he thought perhaps he understood why Aubrey had referred to her as the frog bitch. But as a lead, this looked like a dead end.
    â€œWhat was the essence of his interview?”