Page 24

Pyotr has been Papa's driver for twenty years. He's the one who taught me to change a tire, and he's the one who carried Milana out of the car asleep after every late dinner until she was fourteen. He never calls any of us. He calls Papa.

Called Papa.

“Pyotr?”

“Arina Yaroslavovna.” He sounds uncomfortable. “Forgive me for disturbing you. There's something I think you should know about.”

***

Papa kept his ledgers in a safe behind the bookcase in his study.

Pyotr knows the combination. I don't ask how.

He stands awkwardly in the doorway while I spread three leather books across Papa's desk, his cap twisted in his big, wrinkled hands.

“Volkov's men have been talking,” he says. “At the warehouse in the Port District. They say Volkov signed some arrangement with Oleg Rusakov the day after your father passed. Rusakov's trucks have been using our berths at the river port all week.”

“Papa didn't do business with Rusakov,” I say absently as I skin through the papers.

“No, he didn't. He said Rusakov was a jackal in a nice coat.”

That sounds exactly like Papa.

It takes me forty minutes to find it.

Stepan Volkov has run Papa's river warehouses for fifteen years. His numbers have always been neat. Too neat, if you ask me, but nobody ever did. This week's figures are neat, too. Same tonnage moving through the berths. Same fees.

Except the berths at the north dock are listed as empty.

And they can't be, because Pyotr drove past them yesterday and counted six trucks with Rusakov's markings.

Somebody's being paid for that space. It just isn't us.

I sit back in Papa's chair. The leather creaks the way it always did when he leaned back to think.

“Get the car, please, Pyotr,” I say.

He hesitates. “Arina Yaroslavovna. Perhaps you should speak to someone first. One of your father's men. Or...” He clears his throat. “Garick Lazovski.”

“Why would I speak to Garick?”

“Because Volkov won't listen to you.”

He says it kindly. That's the worst part.

“Get the car,” I repeat.

***

The Port District warehouse is a gray concrete box beside a gray river under a gray sky.

Volkov's office is upstairs, overlooking the loading bays. It smells of cigarettes and diesel. Three of his men are lounging around a table playing cards when I walk in. They stop when they see me. One of them stands up. The other two don't.

I nod and the man who stood, showing respect for the only man who showed respect to me. Ignoring the others.

Volkov is behind his desk. He's in his late fifties, thick around the middle, a gold tooth that flashes when he smiles. He smiles at me now and doesn't get up.

“Arinochka.” He spreads his arms. “My condolences. Such a terrible loss. Sit, sit. Can I get you tea?”