The Siren's Dance (8 page)

“Jesus, Anya, knock it off.”

She crossed her arms, but she did try to calm the anger. “I’m not a victim, just a fool.”

“Fine.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “But still, let me talk to him first, okay?”

After what had happened in Lyubashivka, she wasn’t entirely sure she could. But still, because he had been kind, she said, “Yes.”

He pulled the car away from the curb with clear purpose, and for the first time, she thought to wonder, “Where are we going?”

“Lisko’s putting us up at the Hotel Bristol.”

“Where’s that?”

“How could you have been to Odessa and not seen it? It’s in Center City, with the statues on either side of the front door.”

“Isn’t that the Hotel Krasnaya?”

He turned his face toward her with a quick flash of his grin. “Stupid communists, naming everything red this and red that. When I was still in school, they changed the name back to its original. Hotel Bristol.”

“Oh.” It was a lovely building of pink stucco with an ornate facade that had made her think of Kiev’s finest old theaters. “I always wanted to see inside.”

“No kidding. It’s probably costing a month of my salary per night.” Meaning the Liskos were as wealthy as she’d suspected.

For the first time, she thought to wonder about her sister’s husband. “Is Dmitri a good man?”

Yuchenko faced the street, but he cocked his head, as if pondering the question. His delay in replying somehow assured Anya he understood what she was really asking.

“Before, I would have said he was a man of honor, with a code, but one that didn’t always meet my standards of goodness.”

“Before?”

“Rumor is, since he came back with your sister and took over for his uncle, he’s making big changes. Sounds like he’s well on his way to being good.”

She would never admit it to her sister, but Anya was glad to hear it. Sweet Sonya deserved another chance at happiness, even if she was still supremely patronizing to her younger sibling.

“Where’d you stay when you were here before?” Yuchenko asked.

“In the room in the back of Demyan’s dance studio. There was an office there, with a musty sofa.”

“God. What a pig. Didn’t he bother to make you a cozy little love nest?”

“Nope,” she chirped. If she’d been prone to blush, she might have, even in her ghost body. The humiliation swirled up within her again, churning up her anger. She’d offered herself, begged Stas to take her to bed, and he’d rejected her advances over and over again.

“Where was this studio?” Sergey asked.

“I can picture it, but the name of the street escapes me. It was down the block from a big church…” She sagged even though she was weightless. “It’s the names that get me. I can picture everything, but… I’m probably lucky to remember my own name after so long.” She made a noise like a sigh, even though she wasn’t actually breathing.

“All right. Just tell me what you remember.”

“It was down the street from an abandoned Lutheran Church--St. Paul’s. And right next door there was a clock shop.”

“Like old cuckoo clocks?”

“Yes, and the grandfather type, and watches too. Anything, really. The owner was a very nice man. Mr.…ugh.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “I can picture the gold letters painted on the window pane, but I can’t remember the words.”

“Plotkin. Plotkin’s Timepieces. I think the third Mr. Plotkin runs it now, and I went to school with his son.”

“Yes! Mr. Plotkin, and his wife made the most wonderful cookies.” At least they’d smelled wonderful. Ever obedient to Stas, she’d never eaten one.

“I know exactly where it is. On Pidzemnyy Street. We’ll go straight there.”

Sergey had only been to Plotkin’s Timepieces once, when he’d been assigned to work with Antonin Plotkin on a physics project. He pictured it, trying to recall the storefront to the right. Had it been a ballet studio?

The street spanned a few blocks near the outer edge of the Center City district, in an area he didn’t know well. It looked outright unfamiliar as he approached from the north. He drove up in front of the clock shop. It occupied one of the four storefronts on the ground floor of an enormous apartment building. Painters worked on scaffolding to apply a fresh coat of ivory paint to the building’s exterior.

Sure enough, all these years later, there was still an
Académie de Ballet
next door. The afternoon had grown dark in the canyon between the five and six story apartment buildings, but the studio glowed warmly, with its mirrors and natural oak-colored floors brightly lit and inviting.

“Is this it?” His body suddenly thrummed with excitement, the way he sometimes felt when he stumbled across a detail that promised it might just crack a case.

The ghost worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Yes. The awning is different, and the name. But, yes.”

Could this be the moment he’d been waiting for? Could his father be in there, lounging on a musty sofa and reading a newspaper in the back office where he’d stowed Anya? Sergey could barely suck in a breath.

Cars had parked bumper to bumper on the street, but a red curb in front of a fire hydrant stood vacant. Why the hell not? He could make some excuse to get out of a parking ticket, or better yet, just let Lisko pay for it.

Hand on the door handle, he said, “Be right back.” But then he remembered her fear outside his apartment, her post-cyclone sheepishness, and turned to look at her.

She stared, eyes wide, at the facade of the
Académie
, her mouth pressed into a grim line. He gripped the steering wheel hard at the thought of what she must be remembering, of what a monster like Demyan might have done to her and countless others in this place--might have done to his mother.

He inhaled through his nose, taking a moment to pause and get it together so he could offer her a credible bit of reassurance. “Anya.”

She looked at him. Set in her beautiful face, diamond-dusted and translucent, her dark eyes swirled ever darker with emotion. Her fear came to him in the space between them like a crackle of static electricity.

“I’ll come back. No matter what I find in there, I won’t leave you alone for long.”

Her lips pulled wider, not quite a smile, but it was something. “Thanks.”

He patted the console firmly, the way he might give his partner, Pavel, a reassuring thump on the back, and then he slid out of the car. At the glass door of the studio, he got a clear view of the interior, where a woman sat on the floor, one leg angled outward, straight and long, the other bent at the knee. She’d folded herself over a clipboard on the floor, as if she were planning a class and stretching at the same time, and she glanced up when he opened the door.

“Hello?” Her auburn hair was pulled into a bun and strands of gray streaked it at the temples.

“Hi.” He stuck his thumbs into his pockets. “I’m Inspector Sergey Yuchenko, Kiev
Politsiya
.”

“How can I help you?” She sat up straight and then rose gracefully to her feet, clearly fit even if she was easily forty-five or fifty.

“I’m looking for a man who may have owned this studio in nineteen sixty-eight. Stas Demyan.”

The corners of her mouth turned down, and she shook her head. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Do you rent the space?”

“No, I own it, for ten years. And I bought it from another dancer Madam Smirovski, not someone named Demyan.”

“I see.” Maybe he would head down to the city archives and pull a list of previous owners. Good chance those old property records were never turned into electronic data. Maybe he’d even find Demyan listed there. He tried another tack. “Did you study dance in Odessa? My mother was a ballerina here--she danced in the early eighties, probably a little before your time.”

She smiled at that. “Not so long before. But, no, I’m from Minsk, and I studied there. Does she still dance, your mother? I’m always looking for experienced teachers.”

“No, I’m afraid she gave it up completely. But I understand this Demyan fellow was quite important at one time. He directed the National Ballet for several years. Would you mind asking around?” Sergey pulled out his wallet and handed her a business card.

Her long, thin fingers were cool as they slid over his to accept the slip of paper.

A hinge creaked in the back hallway, and a man came through the opening door. Younger than the dance teacher, he wore slacks and a sweater, though when he crossed the room with an elegant saunter instead of the beefy strut of most men, Sergey could well imagine the man was a dancer. He came to stand at her side and wrapped an arm around her waist, cupping her hip. His nostrils flared when he looked at Sergey.

Sergey was not especially into older women, and he inched back a little, hoping to signal to the man he had no designs on the teacher.

“Alexei, this is Inspector Yuchenko from Kiev. He’s searching for someone named Stas Demyan, who might have operated a dance school here back in the sixties.”

“Demyan? Never heard of him.” Alexei crossed his arms over his chest. “Leyna, isn’t your class about to begin? I’ll show the inspector out.”

She smiled at Alexei as if he hung the moon before bending to retrieve her clipboard. “Yes. It’s time to open the door.” She waved toward the street.

On the sidewalk outside, girls of nine or ten had begun to line up, their mothers exchanging greetings.

“If you will.” Alexei extended his arm toward the exit and took a step as if he expected Sergey to follow immediately. He must have been awfully worried his lady might exchange him for an even younger model. A pulse of pure masculine rivalry rose up in Sergey, and he wanted to punch the guy, wanted to prove himself better, stronger, like a peacock showing its feathers, or a walrus ready to lock tusks to win a mate.

The other man lifted his chest, narrowing his eyes to crescents, as if somehow he’d sensed Sergey’s rush of testosterone. “She’s mine.”

Reason broke through the primal haze that had taken hold of Sergey, and he took a couple slow breaths. Where the hell had that need to posture come from? He was not prone to fits of machismo.

He held up his palms. “I’m just here to ask some questions.”

“Sure you are.” Alexei cracked the door and the girls rushed inside. He flashed perfectly charming smiles at all their mothers, though his hostile stare stabbed at Sergey the moment the path was clear.

There was something familiar about the man. Had he gone to school in Odessa? Or had Sergey met him elsewhere? His accent wasn’t local, maybe even Belorussian. Sergey held the jealous gaze for a long second and grabbed a brochure from a holder hanging outside. “For my goddaughter.”

Alexei bared his teeth and closed the door loud enough that a few of the dancers started and turned to stare. Sergey marched back to the car, giving silent thanks Anya had enough sense to stay out of sight. Behind the wheel, he put the brochure on the dash.

The ghost eased up out of the foot well and peeked at the studio. “There’s a man staring at you.”

“I know. But he’s not a lead, just a guy jealous I’m going to steal his cougar.”

“He has a cougar?” Her brows furrowed as she continued to stare at the man.

He chuckled. “Not exactly.”

“Oh.” She pursed her lips, not liking being laughed at, even a little. God, this little
vila
could use a sense of humor.

“Did you learn anything?” she asked.

Sergey blew out a breath, rubbing at an itch on the back of his neck. He glanced one more time at the
Académie de
Ballet,
where Alexei stood like a sentinel at the door. “Nope. Complete dead end.”

The ballet class came to order inside the studio, the redhead clapping and pointing at where she wanted the girls to stand. It stirred memories inside Anya, of a pure time before ambition and obsession, when she’d just loved to master steps and sway to music, loved to watch the beauty of bodies lengthening and leaping in the mirror and to emulate them.

The man in the door remained, a dark silhouette looming like the Stas of her memories, tainting the wholesome scene with his presence. “Who is he?”

“The instructor’s boyfriend and business partner. And a jerk, but otherwise he claims no similarity to Demyan.”

From what she could see, he bore none at all to her former teacher. He was shorter, stockier, and the thick hair falling to his chin was fair. Then Yuchenko’s little joke penetrated her preoccupied mind. This man and Stas shared the trait of both being jerks.

She cracked a smile, giving her attention to Sergey, who was by all evidence completely free of that particular flaw. “What now?”

“I’m not sure.” He rubbed at the back of his neck as if the muscles there had grown tense.

Stas had liked her to knead the knots of tension there--one of the only times he’d permitted her to touch him.

She glanced down at her translucent hands and clenched them into fists, surprised by the desire to touch the puppy in the same way.

Sergey dropped his own hand to the parking brake. “I know I said I wouldn’t go until later, but my mom has lived in Odessa almost her whole life. Maybe she’ll know something useful.”

Anya barely stopped herself from shouting
no
. She didn’t want to be alone again, even for a little while, after the experience of having a companion--being seen and spoken to--the prospect chilled. Some part of her couldn’t help but fear he may never return.

But her best--maybe only--lead had just fallen flat. If his mother could provide one, being alone was worth it.

“Yes, of course, go.”
But please come back fast
, she added silently.

In only a few minutes, he was pulling up to the white curb outside the Hotel Bristol’s baroque entryway. Anya ghosted through the passenger door of the car.

Sergey grabbed Gregor’s ring and pocketed it before tossing the car keys to the valet. “Keep her here for me. I’ll be right back.”

She floated inside the lobby. The stunning opulence left her frozen, suspended in midair as she took in the enormous room, bright with gilt and peacock-blue drapery. An icy wave passed through her, sending her into a choking panic. But then a man’s gray head bobbed away from her--he’d walked right through her. He shivered and rubbed his upper arms through his suit jacket.