The Son Was Worse

The man standing there looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. His shirt was stained with sweat. His hands shook. He kept looking over Sofia's shoulder, down the hallway, at the shadows.

"You're Petrov's neighbor," Sofia said. It wasn't a question.

The man swallowed hard. "Was."

Sofia stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The apartment was small. A single room with a hot plate in the corner. A mattress on the floor. Newspapers covered the windows.

She turned to face the man. "Tell me what you saw."

The man laughed. It was a terrible sound. "You think I want to die?"

Sofia pulled out a chair from the small table. The legs scraped against the floor. She sat down. "Sit," she said.

The man didn't move.

"I can't protect you if you don't talk to me," Sofia said.

The man laughed again. "You can't protect me if I do."

Sofia reached into her coat pocket. The man flinched. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lit one. Took a long drag. "I'm not here to hurt you," she said. She pushed the pack across the table.

The man stared at the cigarettes like they might bite him. Then he grabbed one with trembling fingers. Sofia lit it for him.

They smoked in silence for a minute. The man's breathing slowed slightly.

"His name was Anatoly Petrov," Sofia said. "He was thirty two years old. He had a wife in Minsk. A daughter he hadn't seen in three years." She tapped ash into a chipped saucer. "Someone cut his throat in an alley two nights ago."

The man's cigarette burned down to the filter. He didn't seem to notice.

"You were the last person to see him alive," Sofia said.

The man's eyes flicked to the door. Then back to Sofia. "I didn't see nothing."

Sofia leaned forward. "Then why are your windows covered? Why haven't you left this apartment in two days? Why do you look like you're waiting for someone to kill you?"

The man's hands started shaking again. The cigarette fell to the floor. He didn't pick it up.

Sofia reached into her pocket again. This time she pulled out a photograph. She slid it across the table. "Was it him?"

The photograph showed Dmitry Kuznetsov leaving a nightclub. His face was calm. Empty. The kind of face that gave nothing away.

The man looked at the photo. Then away. Then back. His lips moved but no sound came out.

Sofia waited.

The man's whisper was so quiet Sofia almost missed it.

"Kuznetsov."

The word hung in the air between them. The name of a ghost. A rumor. A man who owned Moscow without ever being seen.

Sofia didn't move. "Tell me."

The man's hands twisted in his lap. "Petrov...he was scared. Said he had to get out. Said he knew something."

"Knew what?"

The man shook his head. "He wouldn't tell me. Said it was safer if I didn't know." He looked at the photo again. "But he kept saying that name. Kuznetsov. Over and over. Like a prayer."

Sofia took another drag from her cigarette. The smoke curled toward the ceiling. "What else?"

The man's voice dropped even lower. "He said...he said the son was worse than the father."

Outside, a car backfired. The man jumped like he'd been shot.

Sofia studied the photograph. Dmitry Kuznetsov's eyes were the coldest thing in the room.

The man suddenly grabbed her arm. His fingers were like ice. "You can't tell anyone I talked to you. They'll kill me. They'll kill my sister. They'll—"

Sofia pried his hand off her arm. "No one will know."

The man didn't look convinced. "You don't understand. These people...they don't just kill you. They make you disappear. Like you never existed."

Sofia stood up. She took one last look around the sad little apartment. The covered windows. The single bare lightbulb. The man shaking in his chair.

She pulled a business card from her pocket. Set it on the table. "If you remember anything else."

The man looked at the card like it was a death sentence. Maybe it was.

Sofia turned to leave.

The man's voice stopped her at the door. "Detective?"

She looked back.

The man's eyes were wet. "Be careful."

Sofia stepped into the hallway. The door closed behind her. The lock turned. The chain rattled back into place.

She walked down the stairs slowly. The photograph of Dmitry Kuznetsov burned in her pocket.

Outside, the snow had started again. It fell softly on the dirty streets. On the broken sidewalks. On the bloodstains no one ever cleaned up.

Sofia lit another cigarette. The smoke mixed with her breath in the cold air.

Somewhere in this city, a killer was waiting.

And now she had a name.

The bass from the nightclub vibrated through Sofia's bones as she pushed through the crowd. Bodies pressed against her from all sides, sweating and laughing and shouting over the music. The air smelled like expensive perfume and cheap decisions. She adjusted her badge on her belt, making sure it was visible.

At the back of the club, past the dance floor and the VIP sections roped off with velvet, there was a single black door. Two men in suits stood in front of it, their arms crossed, their faces blank. They didn't look like bouncers. They looked like killers.

Sofia walked straight up to them.

"You're in the wrong place," the bigger one said.

She flashed her badge. "I'm exactly where I need to be."

The men exchanged a look. The smaller one reached for his earpiece. Sofia grabbed his wrist.

"Tell Dmitry Kuznetsov Detective Ivanova is here to see him," she said. "Unless he's scared of one woman."

The bigger one smirked. "He's busy."

Sofia leaned in close. "So am I. But here we both are."

The door opened before the men could respond.

A wave of cold air rushed out. The music faded to a dull throb. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, the walls painted a deep red like old blood. At the end of it, another door stood slightly ajar.

Sofia walked forward without waiting for an invitation.

The office was larger than her apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Moscow skyline glittering in the night. A fireplace burned in the corner, the flames casting long shadows. And behind a desk made of what looked like solid ebony, Dmitry Kuznetsov sat watching her like a wolf watching a stray lamb.