Wolves Eat Dogs Read Free

within reach might be the answers he had been searching for: the names of silent partners in the ministries who promoted and protected Ivanov and their account numbers in offshore banks. He wouldn’t find car trunks stuffed with dollar bills. It didn’t work that way anymore. There was no paper. Money flew through the air and was gone.
    Victor, the detective from the street, finally made it up. He was a sleep-deprived man in a sweater that reeked of cigarettes. He held up a sandwich bag containing a saltshaker. “This was on the pavement under Ivanov. Maybe it was there already. Why would anyone jump out a window with a saltshaker?”
    Bobby Hoffman squeezed by Victor. “Renko, the best hackers in the world are Russian. I’ve encrypted and programmed Pasha’s hard drive to self-destruct at the first sign of a breach. In other words, don’t touch a fucking thing.”
    “You were Pasha’s computer wizard as well as a business adviser?” Arkady said.
    “I did what Pasha asked.”
    Arkady tapped the CD tray. It slid open, revealing a silvery disk. Hoffman tapped the tray and it slid shut.
    He said, “I should also tell you that the computer and any disks are NoviRus property. You are a millimeter from trespassing. You ought to know the laws here.”
    “Mr. Hoffman, don’t tell me about Russian law. You were a thief in New York, and you’re a thief here.”
    “No, I’m a consultant. I’m the guy who told Pasha not to worry about you. You have an advanced degree in business?”
    “No.”
    “Law?”
    “No.”
    “Accounting?”
    “No.”
    “Then lots of luck. The Americans came after me with a staff of eager-beaver lawyers right out of Harvard. I can see Pasha had a lot to be afraid of.” This was more the hostile attitude that Arkady had expected, but Hoffman ran out of steam. “Why don’t you think it’s suicide? What’s wrong?”
    “I didn’t say that anything was.”
    “Something bothers you.”
    Arkady considered. “Recently your friend wasn’t the Pasha Ivanov of old, was he?”
    “That could have been depression.”
    “He moved twice in the last three months. Depressed people don’t have the energy to move; they sit still.” Depression happened to be a subject that Arkady knew something about. “It sounds like fear to me.”
    “Fear of what?”
    “You were close to him, you’d know better than I. Does anything here seem out of place?”
    “I wouldn’t know. Pasha wouldn’t let us in here. Rina and I haven’t been inside this apartment for a month. If you were investigating, what would you be looking for?”
    “I have no idea.”
    Victor felt at the sleeve of Hoffman’s jacket. “Nice suede. Must have cost a fortune.”
    “It was Pasha’s. I admired it once when he was wearing it, and he forced it on me. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty more, but he was generous.”
    “How many more jackets?” Arkady asked.
    “Twenty, at least.”
    “And suits and shoes and tennis whites?”
    “Of course.”
    “I saw clothes in the corner of the bedroom. I didn’t see a closet.”
    “I’ll show you,” Rina said. How long she had been standing behind Victor, Arkady didn’t know. “I designed this apartment, you know.”
    “It’s a very nice apartment,” Arkady said.
    Rina studied him for signs of condescension, before she turned and, unsteadily, hand against the wall, led the way to Ivanov’s bedroom. Arkady saw nothing different until Rina pushed a wall panel that clicked and swung open to a walk-in closet bathed in lights. Suits hung on the left, pants and jackets on the right, some new and still in store bags with elaborate Italian names. Ties hung on a brass carousel. Built-in bureaus held shirts, underclothes and racks for shoes. The clothes ranged from plush cashmere to casual linen, and everything in the closet was immaculate, except a tall dressing mirror that was cracked but intact, and a bed of sparkling crystals that covered the floor.
    Prosecutor Zurin arrived.