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women, like feng shui, but the men rarely come in themselves. In fact, he missed his last four sessions, although he insisted on paying for them.”
    “Why did he choose you?”
    “Because I’m good.”
    “Oh.” Arkady liked a woman who came straight to the point.
    “Ivanov said he had trouble sleeping, which is always the way they start. They say they want a pill to help them sleep, but what they want me to prescribe is a mood elevator, which I am willing to do only as part of a broader therapy. We met once a week. He was entertaining, highly articulate, possessed of enormous self-confidence. At the same time, he was very secretive in certain areas, his business dealings for one, and, unfortunately, whatever was the cause of his…”
    “Depression or fear?” Arkady asked.
    “Both, if you need to put it that way. He was depressed, and he was afraid.”
    “Did he mention enemies?”
    “Not by name. He said that ghosts were after him.” Novotny opened a box of cigars, took one, peeled off the cellophane and slipped the cigar band over her finger. “I’m not saying that he believed in ghosts.”
    “Aren’t you?”
    “No. What I’m saying is that he had a past. A man like him gets to where he is by doing many remarkable things, some of which he might later regret.”
    Arkady described the scene at Ivanov’s apartment. The doctor said that the broken mirror certainly could have been an expression of self-loathing, and jumping from a window was a man’s way out. “However, the two most usual motives of suicide for men are financial and emotional, often evidenced as atrophied libido. Ivanov had wealth and a healthy sexual relationship with his friend Rina.”
    “He used Viagra.”
    “Rina is much 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,