Unlucky in Law (15 page)

“He had been dead for twenty-five years,” Paul persisted. “Something or someone made Mr. Wyatt go dig him up. Obviously, there was a point to the exercise. Unless Wyatt's just nuts. Do you think he's nuts?”

“I don't know the man.”

“You never met him?”

“Never. I saw him brought into court, that's it.”

“No theory about why he would dig up your father, then.”

In keeping with his professorial disposition, Zhukovsky could not resist the opportunity to give his sister's death a spin. Paul hoped something in what he said would give them insight into his own motives, which remained tantalizingly elusive. “Christina must have known Wyatt, and took him along when she visited our parents' graves. She always brought cut roses. Sometimes, she cried.”

Thus he implied that Stefan might have been his sister's secret lover, Paul supposed.

“And he,” Alex Zhukovsky, swept away with his own imagination, went on with alacrity, “that bastard, thought of the grave when he had killed her. And then possibly, while burying my sister's body, when he came upon the casket of my father, he looked inside, saw the medal worn by my father upon his burial, grabbed it, and grabbed the—rest without thinking.”

These convolutions didn't seem to convince even the professor, and yet he seemed sincerely puzzled about something, to be struggling to explain the inexplicable. Part lies, part truth, Paul thought, but he couldn't sort it out. Who was lying, Zhukovsky or Stefan?

“Yes, the medal, I wanted to ask you about that,” Paul said.

“It was my father's. What else is there to say?”

“What was it?”

He squirmed. “A military honor from the early part of the twentieth century.”

“You're an expert in Russian history, correct?”

“I am.”

No expert in modest manners, however, Paul noted. “You know your military history, no doubt.”

“It's all military history in Russia.”

“You weren't curious enough to do some research on this medal?”

“During this last year I've learned it's called the Order of Saint George, First Class. It's solid gold with precious inlays, an original historic medal, with some special features. A Carmel antiques expert appraised it for several thousand dollars. Bad news for your client. I understand its theft constitutes a separate felony.

“My father wanted to be buried wearing it on a sash across his shoulder. He used to say he got it as a kind of joke when he was little for fighting with his teachers. I never knew it was valuable.”

“Was your father in the military? Involved in the revolution in 1917, maybe?”

“No.”

“Funny how things happened there,” Paul said. The naïveté of the comment was rewarded with another snarl. This professor was the fiery sort of intellectual. Paul had no use for intellectuals these days. They made lousy lovers who wouldn't live with you. “Wouldn't the poor old tsar be turning in his grave, seeing how things have turned out for the country that murdered him to make a revolution,” he went on, hoping to stoke the fire.

“The country did not murder the tsar! The tsar and his family were assassinated by Bolshevik elements.”

“I understand they finally dug up the grave of the Romanovs in 1991,” Paul went on, “but two of the bodies were missing. It's a strange parallel.”

Zhukovsky made a sound, guttural, untranslatable, but plainly repelled by his comment. Paul had just been riffing, and had never intended to turn the professor off.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn't mean to disrespect your father. It's just—you were talking about the second burial—and the two missing bones.”

Zhukovsky had had enough. “You have my card,” he said. “I want the remains of my father delivered to me care of that address within one week. I'm dead serious about this.”

“He lies, left, right, and center,” Paul said. As Wish dodged the curbs, driving them back to Carmel, Paul scribbled. “Let's assume he hired Stefan to dig up the grave, but not to kill his sister. Question is, why? For the medal? It's valuable, and not doing the old man any good under six feet. If Zhukovsky wanted that so badly, then why hire Stefan Wyatt to take his father's remains as well?”

“For a satanic ritual,” Wish guessed. “Or, what about this? In Africa they grind up rhino horn for an aphrodisiac and sell it in the Far East . . .”

“The problem with your theory is, once he had the bones back from the cops, he cremated them. We'll check that, but I believe him on that score. I'll grant you, maybe the old man had a horn on his nose no one's talking about that's all ground up . . .”

“You're makin' fun of me.”

“Not at all. It makes as much sense as anything I can think up.” Paul thought some more, then said, “Maybe Zhukovsky has some genetic issue to explore that he doesn't want anyone to suspect. One of those diseases that hits in middle age? Like we were all worried Arlo Guthrie might get.”

“Who?”

“Son of Woody?” Paul stared at Wish, who continued to relay incomprehension. How could he not know these cultural icons? Was Paul, twenty years older, so removed from the current set of urban legends? “Huntington's chorea. Or Parkinson's? I'm not sure which diseases they can find through genetic testing, but I'm making an educated first guess that's what he wanted to find out.”

“Then why doesn't the professor just test his own blood?” Wish asked, showing one of his rare flashes of intelligence.

“Good point,” Paul admitted.

“His father was dead in his grave for twenty-five years. So what's the big rush?”

“Make a note for me to try to obtain Constantin Zhukovsky's medical records. Alex's will be completely off limits. I want you to Google the Web tomorrow. Look for the Order of Saint George. Write up a report of whatever you can find out and leave it in the mailbox at the Pohlmann office. Nina will be working there Sunday night.”

“Check.”

“I want verification on what the medal is worth, who gets it, and why.”

“No sweat.”

“Now, the boyfriend, if that's what he was. The man she spent a lot of time with at this conference.”

“Sergey . . .”

“Krilov. Use the ID software on my computer at the office and find out more. Do the same on Constantin Zhukovsky, the father. See if you can find out when he came to this country. Maybe you can find some immigration records. You can get old ship passenger lists on the Web these days. Ellis Island, the whole thing. Check some of the genealogy sites like
Ancestry.com
. Hell, see what you can find on the whole mother-loving family. Alex. Christina. Give that info to Nina, too. Let's get a copy of the death certificate. Call the county and see what office you have to go to.”

“Sure.”

“I can't believe Dean Trumbo didn't do any of this work. This is nuts. She's in the middle of trial, trying to incorporate this basic investigative information, tearing her hair out.” Paul clenched a fist.

“Didn't Trumbo rent your office last year?”

“Yeah. Deano.”

“That's the same face the professor made when he said that name.”

“Deano's giving the P.I. profession a bad name, and I think it's time I did something about it.”

“Talk to him?”

“Something like that,” Paul said.

“Whoa.”

“What happened to Christina when she left the good old U.S.A.? A brother is going to know this stuff,” Paul said absently. They passed the Del Monte exit, along the eucalyptus-covered grounds of the Naval Postgraduate School. To their right a neighborhood of not-too-spiffy frame houses led to the little strip of sand called Del Monte Beach, where Paul had once had a bachelor apartment on Surf Way.

“I'm gonna say—Russia.”

“My conclusion exactly.”

“With her boyfriend, Krilov.”

“Maybe that's where she met him.”

“Playing house or playing politics?”

“That is the question.”

Wish adjusted his sunglasses. He said, “I'm getting smarter. I watch you. I'll see if Christina's passport was taken into evidence. So where do we eat? The deli at the Thunderbird Bookstore?”

“Take the next exit,” Paul commanded.

“But we're miles from Carmel. This is Monterey!”

“Do it!”

Wish swung off Highway 1 at the Aguajito exit.

“Get to the right.”

Wish signaled and moved, setting off a chain reaction of traffic goofs that would be laughable if they weren't so damn sad. These people should put down their mobile phones, quit slopping food around their mouths, quit plucking their eyebrows, and give the open road its due respect, Paul thought.

“Now, as soon as we cross this intersection, there's a tiny entrance on the right. Turn there.” Paul scrutinized the row of greenery screening a narrow driveway. “Hard right!”

Wish turned on his blinker and made the turn, squeaking through a narrow, gated entrance. “Cementerio El Encinal,” he read.

“Let's take some photos for Nina. Then we'll eat.”

12

Saturday 9/20

T
HE GRAVEYARD AT
E
L
E
NCINAL DID NOT FEEL SAD,
P
AUL THOUGHT
as they wended down the asphalt paths in the Mustang on Saturday afternoon. Here and there, a visitor stood or kneeled near a loved one, and there was an atmosphere of conviviality. Fresh flowers, some wilting, mixed liberally and acceptingly with long-lasting silk. People did not forget their dead, even in these modern times, on a sunny weekend in a resort town. Paul felt heartened by the thought, not that he really gave a damn what happened after he went. Still, it was nice to find people remained sentimental.

He thought of the thousands of people lying under the earth, layers of them, centuries of them, now dirt themselves, recycled, remembered as faintly etched headstones, as bones for study, as ancient cultures, as primitives. He gave their collective souls a nod. If anything, people now seemed obsessed with dredging up historical evidence through bones, looking for clues to what? A broader picture of human identity?

Or was it simply an atavistic urge, like a cat's curiosity, that motivated the scientists? They couldn't help the desire to dig and find things to smell or examine, and so they dignified it with important-sounding reasons.

Wish and Paul drove slowly past one woman in her fifties who sat cross-legged next to a gravestone, plucking at the grass around it, smoothing dirt from the stone, singing a hymn. Crows swooping between a fence and a tall tree nearby cawed along with her. Paul decided to add a list of songs to be played at his wake to his last wishes, songs to encourage weeping, and some to get them dancing. Naturally, he would foot the bill for abundant booze, so necessary to create the proper maudlin mood.

He gave a few minutes over to listing songs that might qualify, while Wish inched along, looking for the Eastern Orthodox crosses that had been described by Nina. “Stairway to Heaven,” that was a definite. Played on vinyl, not a CD. Nina could draw him up a will.

They parked the car and hunted for Constantin Zhukovsky's last resting place.

“I never want to die,” Wish said, reading each headstone they passed.

“Born to be wild, huh?” Paul said.

“Huh?”

Paul decided if things didn't work out with Nina, he still wouldn't date women Wish's age. Some things a nubile body could not compensate for, such as never having gotten your motor runnin' to head out on the highway.

Happily, according to Wish, most of these dead people were older than Paul, with a few remarkable exceptions. “I mean, not that this isn't an okay place when the time comes. The ocean not too far. Lots of sunshine during the day. Still, I don't plan to die for about a hundred years. A hundred twenty years. Science is making great strides.”

Paul wished he were still twenty with illusions that death could be planned or forestalled. “Get those blood lipoproteins buff. That's the latest hot tip for living forever, or so says the newspaper today.”

“Okay,” Wish said. “How?”

“Exercise and drugs.”

“Oh, I'm good then. Paul, I would like to ask you a question.” Wish's tone had become formal.

“That would be a nice change,” Paul said.

“I would like to ask you if you will hire me full-time. I mean, I'll still take courses and get my degree. But I would like to work for you.”

“Well, now,” Paul said. “I'm flattered.”

“My parents are going back to Tahoe soon, and I don't want to go with them. I've learned a lot from you.”

“I don't know if I can afford a full-time assistant, buddy.”

“I'll work cheap and help bring in cases.”

Paul said, “Okay.”

“Okay? Oh, my God. Okay?”

“Yeah, although your first assignment is going to be helping me convince your mom.”

“She won't like it.”

“One day, you will have an ergonomic chair and a new Glock, like me. And a beautiful young lady holding a baby at your side. And then, when your mom sits down in the rocking chair and holds the baby, she will forgive you. They usually don't until about then.”

“What about the Glock? What has that . . .”

“You won't tell her about the Glock.”

The fading, golden September day, quiet now, even the insects resting in the slanting afternoon sun, made drama of the long lawns and headstones shadowing the cemetery grounds. Parking not far from where they had entered, they walked up and down the asphalt drives and then along paths between graves, where it was possible. Wish avoided walking right below the headstones, but Paul didn't bother. These people were beyond disturbing.

“Too many dead,” Wish muttered, picking his way past a clump of flat markers. He started subtracting dates of death from dates of birth, commenting on those who died around the same age as Paul or Nina until Paul told him to shut up. Unable to find what they were looking for, they split up. Wish wandered toward the street that ran perpendicular to El Estero Lake. Paul made his way to the small concrete building located roughly at the center. He walked fast to ward off the chill that crept up his legs from underneath the damp grass. Before he could reach the door to the building, an elderly woman came out, saying, “Hello. Haven't seen you here before.”

“No,” Paul said. He gave her a card.

She thanked him and introduced herself as Amanda Peltier. “I'm in charge of the janitorial staff, community relations, and sales. That kind of thing,” she said briskly, as if it was terribly mundane, selling graves. Squinting at his card, then pulling on a pair of reading glasses, she said, “Oh, my gosh. Why, you're a private investigator! Is there something I can help you with?”

“I hope so.”

Maybe she saw him shivering, although he could swear he wasn't reacting visibly to the cold. Still, the light blue eyes seemed to see right through him, and her voice was kind. “Why don't you come in and sit down. It's warmer in here.”

He followed the diminutive figure. Immediately inside the door, he found himself in a room no more than ten by twelve, which held a desk, files, a few big books, two plastic chairs, and a flourishing green plant that on closer inspection turned out to be made of silk. Several framed photographs cluttered the edge of the desk. She motioned him to a chair, then bustled into a smaller room beyond. He could hear her banging around, although he couldn't see her.

“You take cream in your coffee? Or would you prefer tea?”

“What are you having?”

“Tea.”

“Tea, then. Three sugars. No lemon, no cream,” he said. He looked around the room. Two dated, large maps of the Monterey Bay area were the only wall decoration. The wooden desk was old, and its leather seat showed the small imprint of Amanda Peltier's trim derriere. She had been here a very long time, he decided. Not even a window broke the wall. The only way out appeared to be through the door. The room was very like a mausoleum, in fact.

The pictures condensed Amanda Peltier's long life into a short visual essay, ranging from an active, beaming girlhood in a wood frame house by the sea, through marriage to a distinguished-looking man with black hair and a stern gaze. The story finished off with Hair 'n' Glare disappearing, and two tanned beach-loving children growing up, marrying, and having three more sand-castle-building young 'uns.

She returned minutes later with a tray, two china cups, and a steaming yellow-flowered teapot.

“You looked like you could use something hot,” she said, pouring him a cup and handing it over.

His hand felt better just touching the warm vessel and smelling its contents. “What kind of tea?”

“Earl Grey, of course!” she said. She leaned against the desk without sitting down and pulled a soft green sweater down over her hips. A long skirt led down to immaculate woven leather flats. She had a deeply wrinkled pink face to go with the pastel of her eyes, and a dent creasing the exact center of a stubborn-looking chin. White picket teeth as bright as a freshly painted fence smiled at him. “You're obviously not a big tea drinker.”

“No.”

“I drink it all day long.” She put her head back and took a swig, eager as an alcoholic attacking the first drink of the day, set the cup down on the table, and sighed with pleasure.

Paul tried his. The sugary liquid scalded his tongue. He set the cup down. “I'm looking for a certain grave.”

“Of course you are.” She nodded knowingly. She walked behind the desk and pulled out a large folded piece of paper, which she laid flat for him to see. The glasses went back onto the tip of her broad nose. “Take a look, here.”

They studied a map of the graveyard. Each plot had a letter and a number to identify it. “Constantin Zhukovsky,” he said. “That's the name I want.”

“Ah, yes. Papa. A popular man these days.” She licked the tip of her thumb, and flipped through a big green ledger with oversized pages. “Poor man gets more visitors these days than he did when he first died. That's not the usual trend, you know. I could point you to the general vicinity. He's over there with all the other Russians, but since you're here . . .”

“No computer?”

“Oh, there's one in the back. We have a Web site, of course. My oldest granddaughter helps maintain it. You should have heard some of the ideas she had about what to put on there! Ghastly stuff. Or should I say ghostly.”

“I can imagine. Grisly?”

She chuckled. “See, I promise you this is quicker than going through all that rigamarole to turn that darn computer on. People fool themselves, thinking computers are the best thing for every purpose.” Her fingers flew through the pages, and within a few seconds she had the page she wanted. “Here we go.” She wrote a note on a yellow pad, then ran her finger to a section of the cemetery over by a high fence. “Let me draw you a little diagram. It's close to Pearl Street. Have you found the Russian section?”

“No.”

“Their graves are mostly clumped together.” She tore the page off for him.

“Thanks.”

“You're very welcome. But please, finish your tea. There's no rush. Kostya's not going anywhere today, you know. That was Constantin's nickname.” Now she sat down in the chair, crossed her ankles, and drank some more tea.

Alex Zhukovsky had said his father visited the graveyard frequently. “You knew him, Ms. Peltier? Is it Ms. Peltier?”

“Mrs. Peltier, please. And yes, I knew Kostya. It's a scandal what happened to ruin that poor man's peaceful rest, dug up and carted around like trash. It took me months to go by his grave without feeling terribly sad. Of course, all of us here were upset. We thought of having extra guards at night, but really, graves don't get dug up in the normal course of human events. Dead people aren't worth anything on earth, only in heaven. It's shocking, but not something we could have prevented.”

“When did you meet Constantin Zhukovsky?”

“When his wife, Davida, died in 1971, the same year my Harry died.”

“Did you work here then?”

“I did. I was a part-time accountant in those days, and when the manager retired a few months after Harry passed, they asked me to take over. I needed the job, so it was a considerate gesture. Kostya and I were both lonely, and he developed a habit of dropping by. We developed a—kind of friendship during those hard times. Let's see, he would have been just about seventy or so then, already getting along.

“You see, after Harry died so suddenly, I realized he never really knew me. There were so many things unsaid, and so many secrets we could have shared. I guess I thought we'd have longer, or maybe I thought he should try harder. I was devastated. Death is such an abrupt ending to all of life's possibilities. Kostya helped me move on. He was such a sensitive, funny man.”

“Kostya came to visit his wife's grave often?”

“Oh, he really loved that woman. Which is why I was so surprised when . . .”

“When?”

She set her cup down, clearly flustered. “Oh, dear. I'm sorry, but I hate gossips! I refuse to play that game!”

“He's dead,” Paul said. “Nothing you can say will hurt him now.”

She sighed. “His son was here recently so that we could inter the remains once and for all. I suggested Kostya be moved to our new columbarium, but he preferred to keep his father where he was. The columbarium is a beautiful new facility we have over near the lake. Have you seen it yet?”

“Not yet,” Paul said, really hoping this was not prelude to a sales pitch for his very own prime spot in the new facility. “I'm curious about something. I've been doing some research and I discovered that in many cases, caskets don't just go into the dirt. They're embedded in concrete. Is that true here?”

“Correct. The law requires that a mortuary prepare the body properly, and then the casket is set inside concrete in the ground. Has to do with keeping things sanitary. Keeping the water table pure, that sort of thing.”

“By properly, you mean . . .”

“Embalming,” she said serenely.

“That's required by law?” How could this nice lady stand the idea? His flesh crawled at the thought of his blood pouring down a metal drain, to be replaced by preservative. Probably floral scented. Was this the work of some sneaky funeral parlor lobby? Or the manufacturer of embalming fluid, possibly. Or the pair of them, in cahoots. Talk about a powerless consumer group in the grip of forces beyond its control.

“Yes.” Seeing his expression, she added, “They're dead, remember. Can't be hurt, as you pointed out.”

“But I've been following the trial . . .”

“Oh, what an awful thing.”

“I don't recall hearing the Zhukovsky grave was lined with concrete.”

“Those were more lax times. The rules have changed since he was buried in 1978.”

“Hmm.” Paul found her remark obscurely relieving. “What sort of man was he?”

“Kostya?” She looked down at the photographs on her desk. “A family man, like my Harry. Loved his wife and children, of course. A very sociable person, outgoing, gregarious.” She laughed. “A big flirt, if you want to know, but it was never serious. I used to make tea for him. He brought his own little jar of strawberry jam to put in it, and we would sit in the back room and chat, or walk the grounds together. He did it to make me feel better, that's all. It came naturally to him, being kind to a sad widow, loving people as he did. Just the most amazing storyteller! He could make me laugh with the wild stuff he would tell me. Half of it just hokum, probably. Physically frail, of course, always very pale. He was getting on when I knew him.”