Page 56 of Last Violent Call
Marshall dragged himself out of the blankets. God, he hated getting up. When his body was in stasis, it wanted to stay in stasis.
“He’s doing that right now?”
“He is. He may find you to report back. In the meantime, I am off to rinse myself beforeIstart smelling like a corpse.”
Benedikt lightly thumped Marshall’s head as he passed by, walking out of the compartment and toward the washroom. He was so suavesometimes, never saying much but communicating with his touch. Marshall had learned by now that that was Benedikt’s brand of affection, though he didn’t think Benedikt had figured it out himself yet. A harmless bonk on the head may as well be a full-mouth kiss in Benedikt’s mind.
“Up we get,” Marshall muttered to himself, rolling right off the bunk and throwing himself onto the floor. The harsh landing snapped him into sudden alertness, finally giving him enough energy to stand up and shake some feeling into his arms. The apple was still sitting by the pillow, so he picked it up again and took a big bite. He didn’t finish biting down—he kept his teeth lodged inside, holding the apple with his mouth so his hands were free to get dressed.
Ten minutes later, with his hair brushed back nicely and his spiffy clothes on, Marshall stepped out of the compartment and wandered into the dining carriage. It was nearly empty—only three occupied tables, passengers picking at their mystery meats and sauerkraut salads. Perhaps everyone else was still asleep too, unaccustomed to the changes in hour. Or perhaps they were hiding out in their rooms, either avoiding the murderer lurking on board or avoiding being caught as the murderer lurking on board.
An attendant offered him a drink, setting the glass on a coaster, an enormous block of ice taking up half the space inside.
“Mr. Marshall, a moment of your time?”
Vodin was striding through the dining carriage when Marshall turned around. Lev hurried at his heels, taking two quick steps for every one his uncle took. Where the kid looked bright and alert, the morning light wasn’t kind to the officer, showing his tired eyes and the wrinkles in his collar. When Vodin drew closer to the bar and propped his elbow on the smooth granite surface, his appearance somewhat improved, gold color washed into his face by virtue of the chandelier lighting.
“If anything, it should be my pleasure to beg a moment of your time,”Marshall replied. He turned to Lev and offered a casual two-finger salute. Lev returned the gesture enthusiastically. “How are the findings?”
“No paint on anyone’s shoes, unfortunately,” Vodin replied. “We asked passengers to volunteer their assistance, so you can imagine that if anyone boarded with more than one pair of shoes, it would be rather easy to hide the guilty set. For the sake of propriety, I do not think we are quite at a point of desperation to barge into each passenger’s room to make a search.”
No—that would be a waste of time when there were so many rooms in soft-class. The more effective route would be to narrow down the plausible suspects first before running searches of their compartments, but they didn’t even have that yet.
Marshall kept his expression even. He didn’t want the officer to think that they were struggling with this investigation. Or rather, he didn’t want to confirm what Vodin might already be thinking.
Vodin patted dust off his sleeve. As Marshall stayed silent, mulling over his next suggestion, the officer continued: “Omsk is coming up along our route. The next stop, if we were running on a normal schedule. The police there will have tools to dust for fingerprints—”
“No, no, the moment we stop we will lose the culprit,” Marshall cut in. “Don’t you know how easy it is to run off? You have a few weak-muscled attendants standing as door guards, not militia soldiers. You cannot.”
The attendant behind the bar frowned. “Hey.”
Marshall grimaced. “Sorry. No offense. I am sure you are very lovely, but you have to admit”—he leaned over the bar, poking one finger at the attendant’s thin arm—“you likely cannot go hand-to-hand with a murderer and win.”
The woman sitting at the bar chuckled. The attendant frowned but didn’t argue further, cleaning the glass in his hand and mumbling something inaudible under his breath about the possibility of hidden talents.
“Officer, we must collect handwriting samples,” Marshall continued. If one branch of investigation didn’t look like it was offering any results, he had to keep throwing different options at Vodin, give him the impression that something would be found. Though Marshall would be plenty pleased if they truly found something, his first priority was to keep the train running so they could get as close as possible to Vladivostok.
“Handwriting samples?” Vodin echoed.
“To match the threat written on the mirror,” Lev supplied before Marshall could, sounding like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the first rule of investigating. We could start narrowing down who wrote it.”
The boy lifted his chin high. He glanced at Marshall, seeking approval, and Marshall immediately stuck both his thumbs high in the air. Lev beamed.
“I see.” Vodin pushed off from the bar. He tapped the surface, considering, then nodded. “All right. Lev, you can help me then. Let’s fetch the papers in my compartment.”
Vodin ushered Lev away, giving Marshall a weighty look over his nephew’s shoulder. It seemed to warn him that he needed to work fast—at the very least, have some new findings to report back while Vodin collected the passengers’ handwriting. The door closed after him. The dining carriage returned to its usual procession of activity.
“Another drink?” the attendant asked. His tone sounded a little snootier after Marshall’s comment about his weak muscles.
Marshall shook his head. He picked up his first drink, only half-consumed. “I am off to sit. If there are any more of those pastries at the back, though, do bring some for me.”
He had his pick of seating, settling at a table in the corner, right beside the library shelves. The decor in the dining carriage gave the impression of an old manor house, and the unlit candelabras dotting each windowsill only accentuated the ambience. Just as Marshall wasleaning toward the closest one, wondering if the wax was real or merely for appearances, someone cleared their throat from behind him, and he reared away, pretending to have only been stretching his neck.
“May I join you?” Stepan Maximovich Ivanov asked. His eyes were wide, as usual.
Marshall gestured to the free chair. “I would never decline company.”
“Ah, you are better than I am.” Stepan settled down, dropping into the chair before setting his cup of coffee on the table. A few drops spilled over the side. The man grimaced, but otherwise didn’t fuss before using a thumb to swipe the liquid away from the saucer.
