Murder in Ukraine Read Online Free

before.”
    “What else?”
    “She showed up at a fan meeting in Independence Square, we talked and she took off with somebody.   I don’t know who.”
    One of the girls says, “Alexei Keks.”  Laughter follows, all the groupies repeat the word “keks”, and there’s more laughter.  It’s a popular kids’ word that’s recently emerged, it sounds funny and cool, and means cupcake.  I pay for Jenya’s Nikes and leave with an altered mindset, no longer worried about placating my brother.
    I’m looking for Alex Cupcake.
    ****
     
                  The nuclear plant in Zaporizhia is known for storing radioactive waste in the open air, and for all you connoisseurs of urban charm, there’s smokestack industry as well.  Frankly I’m not keen to visit, but on the train a retired Zoporizhian gentleman assures me it’s an admirable city; he fishes for pike in the Dnieper River on fair-weather mornings, buys flowers and a rye bun for his wife on return, and he admires Putin.  At that point I realize he’s senile, so without being rude I shift my attention to the window view. 
                  As it turns out, I’m utterly taken by Zoporizhia from the moment I leave the station in a cab; I’m in love, I feel as if I’m returning after a lengthy absence. It’s the combination of the familiar and the strange, it’s Kiev and yet not, it’s full of people who’ve never pissed me off.  I dab at my eyes.  (I react the same when I go to Lvov.) 
    Alex Cupcake is Alex Poporechney, and his last known address is here in Zaporizhia.  I’ve watched several of his YouTube videos; they post every few days, but recently there’s been nothing.  The blogs didn’t stop on the day Tatty Akkuratney died, if that’s what you’re thinking, but a few weeks previous.  He’s a sweet-faced nineteen-year-old, with medium length, light colored hair which he’s constantly running his hand through, and his videos are of two types: meeting friends to chat and drink, or solo in his apartment, where he addresses the camera and updates his subscribers on his personal relationships, and his journey as a videoblogger, and his financial situation, which I gather is dire.  (He had a brief stint at MacDonald’s).   His following isn’t huge.  He’s determinedly optimistic, but there’s an undertone of worry that he may be losing the battle, by which I mean, he may need to abandon his YouTube dream and get a real job.
    The address I have is on Gorky Street just off Lenin Prospect. Lenin Prospect is grand and urban, but once on Gorky we’re practically in the countryside.  I ask the driver to wait while I unlatch a gate and follow a pathway between red and yellow tulips. I knock on the door.
                  The woman who answers is well-mannered, conservatively dressed, soft voiced.  A girl of about three years hangs on her arm.
                  I ask for Alexei Poporechney, and she tells me she’s his mother. I’m seriously taken aback, she’s barely older than me, so when she asks me my business I abandon the fiction I’ve prepared and tell her the truth. 
                  “I’m a constable with the Kiev police department and I’d like to ask Alexei about a fan meeting he attended in Independence Square.  He may have witnessed something that could aid us in solving a crime.”
                  “What sort of crime?”
                  “Homicide.”
                  Surprisingly she relaxes.  I’m guessing she was prepared for petty larceny, but it’s murder, so it has nothing to do with her Alexei.
                  “Mrs. Poporechney, do you know why Alex stopped blogging on YouTube?”
                  “He’s busy these days,” she says.  She’s pleased, but perhaps hesitant to elaborate to a stranger.
                  “He’s working?”
                  Maternal pride