Chapter 1: Disturbed Balance
Elena Svetlova stepped over the threshold of the apartment at exactly eight in the evening, when the Moscow autumn day had already long surrendered to the oncoming night. The hallway smelled of toasted spices and something slightly burnt.
“You’ve forgotten again that the woman is supposed to get home from work before the man,” Andrei said with exaggerated seriousness, stirring something in a pot and glancing at the clock.
“And you’re cooking your signature ‘let’s see what happens’ again, aren’t you?” Elena shot back, kicking off her heels. “Let me guess: it’s either risotto, or pilaf, or something in between.”
“This is an original dish called ‘Professor’s Fantasy,’ I’ll have you know. In eight countries around the world they cook it exactly… as incorrectly as I do.”
Andrei set the wooden spoon aside and came over to his wife. He was tall, with a neat beard and the calm, attentive eyes of a historian used to examining the details of the past. His jeans and home sweater contrasted sharply with Elena’s strict business suit.
“Tough day?” he asked, kissing her on the cheek.
“As usual,” she sighed, loosening the tight ponytail of chestnut hair. “If a terrorist threatens to blow up a school, you can be sure the meeting about it will be scheduled for the very end of the workday.”
She walked into the kitchen, lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed.
“I’ll put a salad on the table too, just in case the main course proves impossible to identify,” she smiled.
Andrei spread his hands.
“That’s humane. So how did things go with the ‘terrorist’?”
“Ninth grade schoolboy who’s been listening to too much nonsense online. Technically fits an article of the criminal code, but I think he’ll get off with a severe scare and a record with juvenile services. Better tell me how things are at your institute. Still under threat of the Great Relocation?”
Andrei’s face instantly grew serious.
“Worse,” he turned down the heat under the pot and went back to setting the table. “We had a faculty meeting today. The rector said the building is definitely included in the renovation plan. They want to turn our whole block into another glass anthill with coffee shops on the ground floor.”
“I don’t understand why they can’t just declare everything older than thirty years a protected architectural monument,” Elena sighed, spearing a piece of her husband’s unidentifiable creation with her fork. “Then your department would be safe-and so would this frying pan.”
“Very funny, dear. When you get your next promotion, we’ll buy a new one, with anti stick coating. And I’ll even learn how to use it… maybe.”
“Who’s in charge of this renovation anyway?” Elena asked, chewing his invention slowly. To her surprise, it turned out quite edible.
“A company called Mercury Development. But in reality it’s all Lavrov. Maksim Viktorovich Lavrov. He’s considered a star in urban development and hides behind various legal entities, but any significant construction project in the city center-that’s him.”
“Sounds like you know a lot about him,” Elena noted, studying her husband.
“I had to study the enemy,” Andrei smirked. “Our activists put together a whole dossier.”
“Activists?” Elena raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah. I told you about Vera, remember? She’s a journalist, working on an investigation into corruption in urban construction, especially in historic neighborhoods. She organized a grassroots group, and I…”
Elena never found out what exactly her husband did in that group, because her phone broke into a piercing trill. “Gromov” flashed on the screen.
“Gromov?” Andrei whispered, rolling his eyes. “Ten at night. Your boss must have a wife, kids, a dog… Why does he always call you?”
“Because I’m his captain with a reputation as ‘the problem solver,’” Elena smiled, covering the receiver with her hand. “Remember?”
“He probably has you on speed dial: one-wife, two-dog, three-Elena Svetlova.”
She shushed him playfully and answered.
“Svetlova speaking.”
As she listened, her face gradually grew more and more serious. Short questions, clarifications, nods. Finally she said:
“I’m on my way.”
“Something serious?” Andrei asked, already knowing the answer from her expression.
“A businessman’s body has been found in his office. Looks like suicide, but Gromov says something’s off.”
“What’s his name?” Andrei tried to sound merely curious.
“Maksim Lavrov. The same one who…”
“The same one who was going to demolish our block?” Andrei’s voice held a mix of surprise and something else Elena couldn’t quite identify.
She looked at her husband carefully.
“Yes, that one. And judging by your face, you know more about him than you’ve said.”
“I…” Andrei began, but Elena was already heading to the bedroom to change.
“The car’s already downstairs,” he called after her. “I saw the pool car pull up.”
“If I get back late, don’t wait for me with dinner,” Elena said as she changed quickly.
“So ‘if I get back late’ means ‘when I get back very late,’” Andrei handed her the already packed briefcase. “Can’t criminals agree to commit their atrocities during office hours?”
“I’ll be sure to include that in the next Criminal Code revision,” Elena pecked him on the cheek. “‘Article 000: Crimes must be committed strictly from nine to six with a lunch break.’”
She went down into the courtyard, where the unmarked Škoda was already waiting with the engine running.
“Good evening, Elena Viktorovna,” the driver nodded, not removing his earbuds.
“Evening, Marchenko. Presnenskaya Embankment, Mercury City business center.”
“Another skyscraper,” Marchenko grumbled, pulling away from the curb. “I don’t go high up in those. My ears pop from the altitude, like when you dive.”
“And how did you serve in the army, then?”
“Who told you I served in the army?” Marchenko squinted mischievously. “I was unfit for service. On account of the ears, see.”
Elena smiled and leaned back in her seat. This little joke replayed every time they headed to another high rise. Marchenko had served in the airborne forces and was probably the healthiest person in the entire department.
As the Škoda inched through the evening traffic, Elena scrolled through information on Lavrov on her tablet. Fifty two, major developer, owner of the Mercury holding, which included construction companies, a chain of fitness clubs, an investment fund and even a small IT company specializing in “smart homes.” Married three times, an adult daughter from his first marriage, two small children from his third.
“A one man corporation,” Elena muttered. She’d seen plenty of men like that-people for whom business had replaced everything else.
The Mercury City business tower shimmered from afar with bluish glass against the night sky. When the car pulled up to the entrance, a young uniformed employee met her.
“Lieutenant Sokolov,” he introduced himself. “The colonel asked me to escort you upstairs when you arrived.”
In the express elevator the silent lieutenant studied the toes of his shoes while Elena studied her own reflection in the mirrored walls. Chestnut hair pulled back into a ponytail again, minimal makeup, a strict dark blue suit. Office workers dressed more casually these days, but she preferred the classic look. It was easier to talk to criminals and witnesses when you clearly looked like the authorities, not a friendly confidante.
Lavrov’s office took up the entire forty second floor, from the looks of it. Passing through the reception area, where a young woman sat on the couch sobbing (secretary? relative?), Elena stepped into a spacious office.
The first person she saw was Gromov-a tall, heavy set man with a neatly trimmed gray beard.
“Svetlova, finally,” he nodded. “Take a look at this.”
Maksim Lavrov sat in his chair behind the desk, slumped against the backrest. On the desk in front of him lay a pistol. A neat entry wound gaped in his right temple; the back of his head was blown out by the exit. On the floor behind the chair a pool of blood spread, flecked with bits of brain tissue. A classic scene of suicide by firearm.
“Looks like a typical suicide,” Elena noted, pulling on latex gloves. “What’s bothering you?”
“The details,” Gromov pointed at the desk. “Look closely.”
Elena circled the desk, examining the scene. On the desk, besides the pistol, lay a sheet of paper-a suicide note typed on a computer and printed out.
“I can no longer live with this burden. Forgive me, all whom I have failed. Especially my children. This is the only way out.”
There was no signature.
“The note is far too generic,” Elena said at once. “No personal details, no names, no specifics.”
“Exactly,” Gromov nodded. “And something else. Look at his hand.”
Elena examined the dead man’s right hand closely. There were no traces of gunshot residue typical for a close range shot.
“A paraffin test will give us a definitive answer, but even now it’s clear-he didn’t pull the trigger,” she said.
“There’s another oddity,” Gromov added. “The pistol is registered to the building’s security service, not to Lavrov himself. How did it end up in his hands?”
Elena once more surveyed the body and the office. Something clearly didn’t add up.
“When was he found?”
“The secretary,” Gromov nodded toward reception. “She brought some documents for him to sign around seven p.m. and found him like this. Called security, they called the medics and us.”
Elena studied the desk. A cup with unfinished coffee, a neat stack of papers, a tablet, a mobile phone. No sign of the chaos or struggle she would expect from a fight.
“The safe is open,” she noted, pointing to a built in wall safe.
“Yes, and according to the secretary there was supposed to be a large amount of cash in there-about three million rubles-and some documents on the renovation project.”
“Does she know the combination?”
“Says no. Only Lavrov did.”
Elena once more examined the body carefully without touching it.
“Where’s the medical examiner?”
“Right here, Elena Viktorovna,” came a hoarse voice behind her.
She turned and saw a stocky, balding man in his fifties in a dark suit, carrying a large case. Georgy Pavlovich Solovyov, the forensic expert she’d worked with for several years. He looked nothing like the TV show coroners-no white coat, no theatrics. Just a laconic, very observant man with eyes that seemed to have seen everything in the world.
“Georgy Pavlovich,” Elena smiled. “What do you think?”
“Not much yet,” he approached the body and began his examination, muttering under his breath. “Time of death somewhere between six and seven in the evening. At first glance it looks like suicide, but there are inconsistencies.”
He pointed at Lavrov’s hand.
“First, there are no characteristic traces of a shot. Second, the position of the body is wrong for a suicide. After a shot to the head death is instantaneous, the body should slump, not remain sitting just so. Somebody seated him like that post mortem.”
“So-a murder staged as a suicide,” Elena concluded.
“With high probability,” Solovyov nodded. “But final conclusions will have to wait for the full autopsy.”
Elena walked over to the office window. From the forty second floor the night view of Moscow was stunning-lights, roads, the river. A stark contrast to what was happening in the office.
“Security cameras?” she asked, turning back to Gromov.
“Already checked,” he replied grimly. “The system suffered a ‘malfunction’ about an hour before the estimated time of death. Recording resumed only an hour and a half later.”
“Convenient,” Elena observed.
“Too convenient,” Solovyov agreed as he closed his case. “I’ll finish the on site work and order the body transported. Preliminary lab results will be ready by tomorrow afternoon.”
He gave a brief nod to Elena and Gromov and left.
“Strange man,” Gromov remarked when the door closed behind the expert. “But the best at what he does.”
“That he is,” Elena agreed, pulling out her phone.
“Who are you calling?” Gromov asked.
“Andrei. I need to warn him I’ll be late,” she answered, though other questions were already forming in her mind. What tied Andrei and his activist group to Lavrov? Why had her husband never mentioned this journalist Vera before tonight?
“And I need to talk to you,” Gromov lowered his voice. “Privately. It concerns this case… and why you, specifically, are handling it.”
Elena tensed.
“What do you mean?”
“Not here,” Gromov glanced at the cameras in the corner of the office. “Later. For now, do your job.”
As she dialed her husband’s number, Elena felt a chill run down her spine. What should have been a routine investigation of a wealthy businessman’s suicide was already sprouting oddities. And judging by Gromov’s tone, the real surprises still lay ahead.
“Andrei, it’s me,” she said when he picked up. “We need to have a serious talk about Lavrov and your involvement in that initiative group.”
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