Page 57 of Last Violent Call
“So,” the man continued. “Private investigation. How did you get into the field?”
Great question. Marshall wondered that himself sometimes. He supposed he could recount the series of events that had set him here today. Somehow, though, he figured it didn’t make an appropriate story to describe his beginnings as a bastard child living in the Chinese countryside with his Korean mother, which led to joining the White Flowers upon her death, which led to his place beside the ruling Montagov family. Officially, he had been a gangster running their errands. Unofficially, he had been part troublemaker, part detective, part adviser—depending on the day and what new troubles stirred up in the underground empire. He’d had plenty of opportunity to develop private investigation skills.
“The way it always starts,” Marshall replied, circling around the question. “A morbid curiosity as a child.”
Stepan tapped his spoon against the side of his coffee cup. He bounced up and down once in his seat, in the manner of a chuckle. “Are you very far from those days? You barely look old enough to be working.”
“Very funny. I have been told I have a youthful glow.”
After those early years on his own, fending for himself and trying towalk in an orderly line that didn’t teeter entirely into oblivion, Marshall was used to a world where that was the norm. Shanghai was a beating, thriving world of opportunity at any stage. Heirs were primed to take over criminal networks at eighteen. Children ran messages into enemy territory because they were quicker and more agile when avoiding bullets.
“There is great benefit in that.” Stepan sipped his coffee. He grimaced, face morphing in silent complaint over the bitter taste. “You get old and suddenly you can no longer flash a handsome smile to solve a problem.”
Marshall snorted. “I don’t think a handsome smile is going to help with this problem at present.”
Stepan made a noise of agreement. He leaned back in his chair. Crossed one leg over the other. That perpetual look of surprise he always wore narrowed a minute amount, transforming into consideration.
“It is not going well?”
“Oh”—Marshall backtracked, not wanting to reveal too much—“it is going as it should. But wouldn’t it be easier if there were shortcuts?”
“I imagine there must be a vast amount of information to cover. There is so much to look into regarding the deceased’s work alone, never mind his personal life.”
Marshall didn’t quite register the full impact of that statement before he was already nodding along. Two seconds later, his nod halted mid-movement, and he tilted his head instead.
“Popov’s work?” he asked. “I am not sure if I know what you mean.”
“Oh?”
There was something very interesting about that one syllable. Because Stepan’s tone of voice sounded confused, but when he met Marshall’s gaze head-on, there was no sense of confusion there. Either his large, owl-like eyes were prone to going dull, or he had spoken onpurpose so that Marshall would pick up on this thread of questioning.
Why?
“I wasn’t aware you didn’t know,” Stepan clarified. That was a lie, Marshall decided immediately—the man stressed all the wrong syllables in his sentence as he feigned shock.
“The deceased wasn’t around for very long; there was hardly time to offer information about his line of work,” Marshall said. “No one on board has made his acquaintance prior to the journey either.”
“The deceased was not around for very long, but for some time nevertheless.” Stepan’s attention moved behind Marshall, searching left and right. Marshall didn’t know what the middle-aged man was looking at until he rose up and shuffled toward the library shelf, tapping a hand atop the row of encyclopedias before stopping at the white-spined books on the row below instead. “I had a conversation with him shortly after we boarded. He said he worked in pharmaceuticals.”
Ten thousand different thoughts flew through Marshall’s head at once.Pharmaceuticals. Something was starting to click together. Something at the very edges of what he was capable of grasping—but something nonetheless.
“Why didn’t you mention this during questioning?” Marshall asked. “It feels like critical information.”
“Why, I thought it was information that would have been discovered in his belongings already!” Stepan slid out one of the volumes, then brought it over to the table. When Marshall glanced at the front cover, he realized it was a telephone and address book, its pages as thin as whiskers, flopping under its own weight.THE MOSCOW DIRECTORY, it read. “He would be listed in here, I am certain. Now, don’t go accusing me of withholding this when I am finding it for you.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Marshall said. Suspicion churned in his gut, but it didn’t add up. There was nothing about Stepan’s suggestion thatseemed intended to throw the investigation off the right scent. Marshall didn’t even have a scent to begin with. And yet Stepan had mentioned it for some purpose.
“All right. Excuse me now, I must catch up on sleep.” Stepan rapped his knuckles on the directory. “The infernal sunlight woke me up too far early this morning. Best of luck, detective.”
Just as Stepan was striding out of the dining carriage, Benedikt was striding in. The man offered a tilt of the hat in greeting, and Benedikt returned an expressionless nod. The door closed. Marshall immediately indicated for Benedikt to hurry closer, his motions furious.
“Where’s the fire?” Benedikt asked, sliding into the seat Stepan had just departed from.
Marshall started to flip through the directory. It was organized by personal listings in the first three-quarters, then businesses and organizations at the back.
“Come closer.”
Benedikt frowned. He pulled his seat over, looking more intently at the pages now. His hair was still wet, the ends slick against his neck. “What is it?”
