“If you don’t already know, it means you’re not meant to,” the man replied.
“Is that some kind of parable?” Dinara countered.
“It’s a truth,” he replied. “We welcome friends here.” He looked them up and down. “And I don’t think you’re friends.”
“We’re investigating a murder,” Dinara said.
“A terrible sin,” the man replied. “I was a priest before I found a better way to reach my flock. I know all about sin.”
“I’m sure you do,” Leonid said.
“But I know nothing about murder,” the man remarked without missing a beat. It was as though Leonid hadn’t spoken. “So if there’s nothing else, I must insist you leave.”
“You haven’t even asked us who was killed,” Dinara observed.
“Because I don’t know about any murder,” the man said.
He stepped closer to Dinara and tried to jostle her back. She could feel Leonid bristle, and sensed a shift in the atmosphere. She glanced past the silver-haired man to see every fighter in the place watching them.
“Come on,” Dinara told Leonid. “Let’s go.”
She tried to move her partner, but he held firm and glared at the Black Hundreds member. Finally, Leonid gave ground and allowed himself to be ushered to the door. Dinara felt the boxers’ hostile eyes on her as they left the room.
“You should have let me—” Leonid began.
“No need,” Dinara cut him off. She flashed the wallet she’d lifted from the man’s pocket. “Erik Utkin,” she said, reading from the identity card she found inside. “Let’s do our research before we do our fighting.”
She used her phone to take pictures of the man’s ID, bank card and old Army personnel pass, before tossing everything in the snow.
“At least now we know who we’re dealing with,” Dinara said.
Leonid smiled. “We might make an investigator of you yet,” he said, and Dinara punched him playfully as they headed for his car.
CHAPTER 37
DINARA COULD SEE flecks of congealed white fat in every mouthful. She didn’t understand how Leonid could face cold solyanka soup, but he often finished their lunchtime leftovers whenever they worked late. He was leaning back in his chair and had his feet on his desk as he dug into the remnants of Elena’s bowl. The office administrator was long gone, but she knew better than to throw away her leftovers if Leonid was working a case.
Dinara’s phone rang and she answered the call from Anatoli Titov, an old FSB contact.
“Anatoli,” she said, forcing herself to sound pleased to hear from him. “What have you got?”
Anatoli had had a thing for her when they’d both worked counterterrorism, and he’d since married and had a child, but the way he’d responded to her flirtatious request for a favor suggested the flame of desire hadn’t quite been extinguished.
“I have got something,” he replied. “Erik Utkin is a former army captain who was pensioned out with an injury he picked up in Chechnya. He retrained as a priest, but quit the church three years ago to join the Black Hundreds as a recruiter. We think he’s connected to some small-time criminals.”
“Anything else?”
“Always greedy. How about we get together for a drink?”
“Now who’s greedy?” Dinara asked. “Aren’t you married?”
“So?” Anatoli said. “You wouldn’t ask a man to eat dinner at the same restaurant for the rest of his life.”
“You’re lucky you’re not starving,” Dinara replied.
Anatoli scoffed and was about to speak, but she cut him off.
“Thank you, Anatoli. I owe you a professional favor.”