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was far more likely to have a degree from NYU, start out as an intern somewhere, have an affair with someone who had an important position in an area of interest to the Kremlin—finance, industry, politics, media, among others—and end up working in some target institution and sending back insider knowledge about that sector.
    It was no longer about destroying each other militarily. It was now all about making money and getting the upper hand economically. And if a terrorist attack or a war in another country helped to distract, weaken, and bankrupt us while messing us up as a society—all the better.
    We had a dead third secretary downstairs and a counselor here to assist us in the investigation.
    More old-school. But potentially nastier.
    I turned and took in the rest of the room. There was a sofa, well used and floral patterned, and a couple of plain armchairs on either side. There was a big old TV set facing them, and massive bookshelves all along one of the side walls. The shelves were crammed with books and held what looked like a pretty elaborate stereo system, with two beefy speakers sitting on opposite ends of the top shelves. There was the broken coffee table I noticed earlier. And there was the large window that gave onto the street. Its glass was mostly gone, and the timber frame was cracked and splintered.
    “So where are we with this?” I asked the three of them, pointing at the damage. “What do we know? This wasn’t Yakovlev’s place, right?”
    “No,” Giordano answered. He handed me another framed photo. It was of the same couple as the picture in the hallway, only this time they were on vacation somewhere sunny. “You’re looking at Leonid Sokolov and his wife, Daphne. They live here.”
    “So where are they?”
    “Well, they ain’t here, are they?” Adams pitched in.
    His tone wasn’t particularly friendly. Not that I cared. But I didn’t have much patience for juvenile sulking or for a jurisdictional pissing contest. I’d seen it played out in too many bad movies to ever want to suffer through it in real life.
    Giordano stepped back in. “Sokolov teaches science at Flushing High. He didn’t show up at work this morning.”
    “And his wife?”
    “She’s a nurse at Mount Sinai. She was on the night shift last night, came off work at seven.”
    “No sign of her, either?” Aparo asked.
    Giordano shook his head. “Nope. We had a look around the place. Toothbrushes in the bathroom, bed’s been slept in, reading glasses still on the night table. There’s a couple of empty suitcases tucked away in the hall closet where you’d expect them. The toaster’s got a couple of slices of bread in it. Doesn’t look like they’re on a trip.”
    I nodded and, avoiding the debris on the carpet, stepped over to the window. I looked down. The tent was directly below us. Then I looked across the street. It might have been helpful if there had been similar buildings across from where I was standing. Maybe someone there would have seen something. But there was only a single-story row of shops. Great open view for the Sokolovs and their neighbors. Not so great for us.
    “Anyone hear or see anything useful? Neighbors, people out on the street?”
    Zombanakis said, “We’ve got uniforms and detectives out canvassing, but nothing so far.”
    I turned to Larisa. “So why was Yakovlev here? What was he doing?”
    “I don’t know. I spoke to the first secretary for Maritime Affairs—his direct boss. As far as he knows, Yakovlev had no official business here.”
    “Did Yakovlev know the Sokolovs?”
    “Not that we know of,” she replied. “But we need to talk to people who knew him.”
    “Was he married?” Aparo asked. “Any next of kin we should be talking to?”
    “He was single,” she replied. “Any relatives he has are back in Russia.”
    “Girlfriend?” Aparo pressed on. “Boyfriend? Sponsor?”
    My partner, the king of tact. I shot him a small glare, to which he responded with his