Murder in Ukraine Read Online Free Page A

wins out.  “He was hired by the company that manages the shipping locks on the river.  If he sticks with it, they’ll help with engineering school.” 
                  I can tell she’s been wanting to tell someone, to test this information in the real world, and see if others believe it, because she’s not sure.
                  “He’s doing well, then.  Is he at home?
                  “He’s living with a mate from work.”
                  “Could I have the address, Mrs. Poporechney?”
    As I leave, I glance back, to see if she’s gone inside to phone.  But no, she’s inspecting the flowerbeds, and the daughter trails after.
    ****
    The cab takes me toward the river, we’re not in the countryside anymore, it’s urban decay on every level, rubbish rotting in the gutters, street walls scarred, shops sealed with plywood.  No reflection on Zaporizhia, cities all over Ukraine have this sort of neighborhood now.  I pay off the cab because my driver has another fare, and then something unexpected happens.
    It turns out Mrs. Poporechney lied.
    The street door is open but the lift is broken, so I walk up to the fifth, tap on the door of apartment 504, and a Muslim woman answers.  She’s never heard of Alex.  I return to the lobby and find a row of battered mailboxes, but no Poporechney on any of them.  I knock on the first floor apartment door which has a view of the street entrance, and intrude on an elderly gentleman’s lunchtime.   He shakes his head.  No Alexei.
    I’m baffled. I turn to leave when I notice a hallway door, which I assume is a utility closet. I open it, descend a creaking stairway to the basement, arrive at another door.  This one doesn’t open although it doesn’t appear to be locked, so I put my shoulder into it.
                  “Alexei?”
    I grope for the light switch, pop it up and down.
    “It doesn’t work,” says a low voice.
    “Alexei, I’m Katya Kondrashov with the Kiev police.”
    “Okay.”
    “Can I come in?”
    No answer so I shove again and wriggle through.  Inside there’s light from a sidewalk-level window, but it’s murky as hell.  There’s a figure lying on the stone floor, wrapped in layers of clothing. 
    I bump against a stool, and sit down.  My eyes adjust.  There’s no smell except basement smell; the furnace has been turned off so it’s quiet except for the rattle of plumbing.  There’s an empty water canister standing against a wall but no sign of food.
    “What’s going on, Alexei?”
    No answer.  “Alexei, when was the last time you ate?”
    The figure shifts slightly but I can’t see a face.
    “Alex I’m not here to harm you.  I just want to hear your side of the story.”
    A minute passes.  Then a whimper. 
    “Why don’t we go out?” I suggest.  “It’s a beautiful day, we’ll get Pepsis and sandwiches, my treat.”
    More time passes, I’m starting to wonder what my next ploy will be, and then Alex says in a soft voice, like his mother’s, “Could you wait outside please?  I have to pee.”
    “Sure.  I’ll wait upstairs.”
    The young man who emerges from the basement and climbs the stairway doesn’t resemble Alex Cupcake.  This is a boy who’s wrung every drop of anguish from his guilt, only to learn that guilt replenishes endlessly.  The lively energy of the face is gone, the cheerfulness replaced by gape-mouthed desolation, every physical marker of youth and attractiveness has been ravaged. Alexei Poporechney is a zombie.
    He trails after me, we cut across a kids’ playground where young men are pelting each other with empty aluminum cans, and a couple of streets further on we find a sandwich shop.  Alexei hangs back, I order for both of us, neither of us speaks until I ask if there’s park in the vicinity.  Then he lopes ahead with frantic  purpose, leading me between two monstrous apartment towers, down a stairway, through a fringe of young