younger."
"And his physical health?"
"For a man his age, good."
"He didn't mention an infection or a cold?"
"No."
"Did the subject of salt ever come up?"
"No."
"The floor of his closet was covered with salt."
"That is interesting."
"But you say he recently missed some sessions."
"A month's worth, and sporadically before then."
"Did he mention any attempts on his life?"
Novotny turned the cigar band around her finger. "Not in so many words. He said he had to stay a step ahead."
"A step ahead of ghosts, or someone real?"
"Ghosts can be very real. In Ivanov's case, however, I think he was pursued by both ghosts and someone real."
"Do you think he was suicidal?"
"Yes. At the same time, he was a survivor."
"Do you think, considering everything, he killed himself?"
"He could have. Did he? You're the investigator." Her face shifted into a sympathetic frown. "I'm sorry, I wish I could help you more. Would you like a cigar? It's Cuban."
"No, thank you. Do you smoke?"
"When I was a girl, all the modern, interesting women smoked cigars. You'd look good with a cigar. One more thing, Investigator. I got the impression that there was a cyclical nature to Ivanov's bouts of depression. Always in the spring, always early in May. In fact, right after May Day. But I must confess, May Day always deeply depressed me, too."
It wasn't easy to find an unfashionable restaurant among the Irish pubs and sushi bars in the center of Moscow, but Victor succeeded. He and Arkady had macaroni and grease served at a stand-up cafeteria around the corner from the militia headquarters on Petrovka. Arkady was happy with black tea and sugar, but Victor had a daily requirement of carbohydrates that was satisfied best by beer. From his briefcase Victor took morgue photos of Ivanov, frontal, dorsal and head shot, and spread them between the plates. One side of Ivanov's face was white, the other side black.
Victor said, "Dr. Toptunova said she didn't autopsy suicides. I asked her, 'What about your curiosity, your professional pride? What about poisons or psychotropic drugs?' She said they'd have to do biopsies, tests, waste the precious resources of the state. We agreed on fifty dollars. I figure Hoffman is good for that."
"Toptunova is a butcher." Arkady really didn't want to look at the pictures.
"You don't find Louis Pasteur doing autopsies for the militia. Thank God she operates on the dead. Anyway, she says Ivanov broke his neck. Fuck your mother, I could have told them that. And if it hadn't been his neck, it would have been his skull. Drugwise, he was clean, although she thought he had ulcers from the condition of his stomach. There was one odd thing. In his stomach? Bread and salt."
"Salt?"
"A lot of salt and just enough bread to get it down."
"She didn't mention anything about his complexion?"
"What was to mention? It was mainly one big bruise. I questioned the doorman and lobby receptionist again. They have the same story: no problems, no breach. Then some guy with dachshunds tried to pick me up. I showed him my ID to shake him up, you know, and he says, 'Oh, are they having another security check?' Saturday the building staff shut down the elevator and went to every apartment to check who was in. The guy was still upset. His dachshunds couldn't wait and had a little accident."
"Which means there was a breach. When did they do this check?"
Victor consulted his notebook. "Eleven-ten in the morning at his place. He's on the ninth floor, and I think they worked their way down."
"Good work." Arkady couldn't imagine who would want to pick up Victor, but applause was indicated.
"A different subject." Victor laid down a picture of two buckets and mops. "These I found in the lobby of the building across from Ivanov's. Abandoned, but the name of the cleaning service was on them, and I found who left them. Vietnamese. They didn't see Ivanov dive; they ran when they saw militia cars, because they're illegals."
Menial tasks that